The Magic Tablet: The Complete Series

by Nadia Nightside

  Celeste was vain indeed, and every part of her life was set up to justify this vanity in the most impressive way. All that was really needed was a mirror, though; however vain she was, her beauty could melt men and women both down to butter.

  Her estate was staffed by a intricately arranged staff of slaves, all there because of their undying love for their Mistress. The highest in the hierarchy were allowed to frequently attend to Celeste—the ladies she used as pleasure slaves to attend her cunt with well-educated licks and kisses in the evenings. The lowest were those who barely ever caught glimpses of the Mistress—groundskeepers and gardeners outside of the palace entirely, kept out of sight and mind. And yet still, they treasured each moment they saw her and would never, ever orgasm to the thought of another. Their yearly payments were access to selfies she had taken with a camera years before, always in the same outfit.

  The palace was kept secret from the public; only a few high-ranking government and military officials even knew about it, and most were wise enough to stay away. Those that became curious had a tendency to disappear—either earning the wrath of the immortal beauty or earning her favor. The one would result in a slow death, and the other would result in a lifetime of arduous servitude and then a slow death.

  Celeste expected the full attention and devotion of her slaves, and regularly worked them until they died midday from over-exertion.

  It was simpler, after all, to take care of so many devotees when, regarding the bulk of them, you barely fed them and did not allow them to sleep. And who should want to sleep when a living Goddess might need their assistance at any moment?

  Her favored attendees were given such allowances—ample food, regular sleep, fine clothes, and so on—but every tier beneath this high precipice was delivered less and less.

  The court room doubled, when she wanted it to, as her bedroom, her court room, her torture chamber, and her executioner’s block. She was a woman—if she was that at all—with a great many talents and a great many desires. Almost all of these desires had been impeded at some point or another, and those found guilty of delaying her pleasure were always dealt with harshly.

  Celeste smiled. It was a joyless, cruel thing, but it made her the no less beautiful for it. Her face was angelic. Her eyes a deep, sparkling violet. Her hair was long and thick and dark, a mass of darkness that stretched down past her hips. Her breasts were enormous and buoyant.

  She dressed in a slender silk gown held up with a thin golden cord around her neck, soft fabric barely containing the inestimably luscious swell of her tits. The cloth parted in an x-pattern, revealing the tenderly toned expanse of her tanned torso, before draping down over her glistening wet cunt and down across her magnificently structured ass.

  Bright, priceless gems decorated her neck, her ears, her wrists and ankles. Gloves, elbow-length and silk, attended her arms. If she touched her slaves without them, they were usually useless for the whole day from cumming too much. Pleasure was hers to give out as she wished.

  Everything about her spoke of sex, of fertility, of luscious beauty too precious to ever be claimed. This was the Promise given to her.

  Most individuals she could simply enslave with a few favored smiles or winks. She was, after all, the Most Beautiful Female Alive. This was her Promise, and like every magical Promise delivered in the world, it was also her Curse—it had warped her already rather warped sense of perception about what she deserved in life.

  She was no longer the somewhat vain, if completely oblivious young woman she had been some five hundred years ago when she had first summoned the magical djinns who had delivered the Promise and the Curse to her.

  No, she had five hundred years of political maneuvering, heartless assassinations, cruel interrogations, planned coups, and all manner of interference had hardened her soul down to a shining diamond core—hard, shining, flawless, and unforgiving.

  Her Promise was her beauty. Her Curse, if you want to call it that, was her vanity. She wouldn’t allow anyone to be as gorgeous as her. She was to be immortal, constantly hounding out the beautiful and ensuring that Celeste, and Celeste alone, was the bearer of the title most beautiful.

  Not that she would scar or maim or kill these women—oh no. Beauty to a being like what Celeste had become was like fuel in an engine.

  She could absorb beauty, pull from great sources of it and make it her own. She could humble a young starlet in less than a day, sucking away years of her future grace. In this way, a gorgeous 18 year-old might look haggard by twenty-five, when before Celeste interfered she would have been beautiful until at least sixty.

  It was a slow, sucking form of torture that Celeste enjoyed, knowing that these other would-be beauties prizes themselves so much on their appearance only to have it fade and fade...and she fingered her cunt nightly, thinking of how much more she deserved the Beauty than they.

  The only person she loved was herself; the only thing she loved truly was her beauty.

  The djinns called this a Curse...but Celeste called it her Calling.

  She was infinitely beautiful. An arrangement of mirrors surrounded her throne even at that moment, with her sister prostrated beneath her, so that she could see her gorgeous reflection at every angle. Her hair was dark, thick, and shining. She looked like a magnificent dark goddess, born from fire and smoke and engineered purely to make cocks hard and cunts wet. There was no escaping her beauty. She was like the sun, and all other descriptions and actions revolved entirely around her.

  To say that she was in love with herself was an understatement. She adored herself, and had not been able to find an error in any of her doings or appearances in more than five centuries. Her every movement, every sound, every shift gave her sensational glee.

  Constantly she rode on that hot, spectacular edge of lust—that initial moment of falling in love that could last for months with a new partner, all those longing looks and flashes of quick heart rate—and for her, it had lasted for half a millennium.

  She turned from her reflection—with some regret—and raised a perfect eyebrow at Anastasia.

  “Where is it, Sister? Where is the Djinn Stone?”

  “I’ll never tell you.”

  “Of course you will, sister. This crusade of yours to stop me has only gone on for as long as I’ve allowed.” Celeste held out a hand, and instantly her attendant female slaves—lovely creatures with brilliantly red hair—moved to assist her. Their cunts pulsed with helpless orgasm at the gloved touch of their goddess.

  The male slaves, naturally, only looked on with helpless longing as these female attendants were blessed enough to touch Celeste.

  She strutted down from the high steps of her throne on impossibly tall, crystal heels. They made her legs and ass look even more magnificent than before. Celeste smiled, strutting slowly down from her throne. Even her pure, angelic sister’s eyes widened with desire as she witnessed the glory of Celeste’s approach. Every muscle perfectly toned. Every inch of skin bronze and tight.

  “That I have you here now proves that I could have captured you at any time, I should think,” said Celeste.

  “Big talk for a vain bitch.”

  Celeste smirked. She held her sister’s face for a moment and slapped her.

  “I am a vain bitch,” said Celeste, staring longingly at her nearby reflection. “But an insult is all about tone, isn’t it? For instance, I could tell you what a wonderful job you’ve been doing researching all those artifacts to rob me of my power.” Her sarcasm oozed through every syllable. “Except I’ve been following your research. And I know what you've found—I knew what you were looking for probably before you did.”

  When Celeste had wished for her beauty, Anastasia had been there too. She had wished to make the world a better place—such a kind-hearted girl. And so she had been Promised with immortal youth, to always be able to help. And she, too, had her own Curse—that she would be barren and partnerless...forever. Her eternal work would be done alone.

  And so,
in her isolation, Anastasia had decided that Celeste’s efforts to gain power and glory for herself had gone too far.

  “We’re in the same boat, Anastasia. I’m surprised at your stubbornness. I found the Djinn Stone nearly as soon as you did. We wouldn’t have found it at all without spying on each other. I deserve it as much as you.”

  Anastasia shook her head. “I don’t want to use it. It’s too...too powerful. Too much. I want to destroy it...after I take away your Promise. And your Curse. I would give you peace, sister.”

  “Peace?” Celeste scoffed. “I’ll know peace when the whole world kneels before me. When...”

  When no one can ever hold me in their power ever again, she almost said. But she stopped herself. Her sister had a way of making her emotions run high.

  “I want that Power, sister mine.” Celeste stroked Anastasia’s face, enjoying the hot shuddering pleasure on the blond’s face at her touch. “Where is it?”

  “I...won’t say.” She straightened, perhaps only inadvertently showing off more of her cleavage in her thin white sheet gown.

  Celeste’s smile was indulgent, then. She had rather been hoping Anastasia would see it that way. It was always more fun to watch as someone’s will broke into pieces before her very eyes. Especially a strong, hard will like Anastasia’s, tested and refined for so many hundreds of years.

  Most people gave in right away.

  “We’ll see about that.” She snapped her fingers. A retinue of five pleasure slaves—all female, all beautiful, decorated with jewels, high heels, and lacy lingerie—rushed to attention, breasts bouncing a-ready. “Make her talk, ladies.”

  The beauties smiled with religious fervor, licking their lips and approaching Anastasia slow, like cats circling a platter of milk.

  “It doesn’t matter how much pain you give me,” Anastasia insisted. “I won’t talk.”

  “Pain?”

  She leaned in and kissed her sister hard and deep, moaning lusciously as their tongues melded. It would be nothing to make her sister’s hot, beautiful body thrill with orgasm with little more than a careful flick of her tongue...but instead, Celeste held off, letting Anastasia instead stew in her pent-up desires.

  “You’re my sister, darling,” she dropped her voice to a luscious, loving coo. “I would never dream of hurting you in such a way. I want you to feel good. I want you to feel so good, in fact, that you’ll do anything I say...just like all of my wonderful servants here.”

  “Slaves, you mean.”

  But her sneer was more insincere this time. She had tasted Celeste now.

  “Don’t speak so poorly of them,” said Celeste. “You’ll be among their number soon enough. And then we shall be a family again. I should have done this ages ago, but it was more amusing to watch you meddle. Now, though, you’ve gone too far.”

  She slipped back up on her throne, crossing her long legs as she did. Below her, a male bodyguard passed out from orgasm. Two others dragged him away; if he did not recover within the day, he would be disposed of and his body incinerated.

  The immortal beauty only had use for the strong in her service.

  Celeste slid one glove off her hand, allowing her skin to touch skin—the only being in the universe, as far as she knew, worthy of touching Celeste was...Celeste. She cradled her elegant breasts, twisting the nipple to send a hot shiver of pleasure down her spine. The show was just beginning.

  The five slaves held Anastasia down on the tile, spreading her limbs out wide. The luscious beings cradled her legs and arms between their thick, heavy breasts, kissing and cooing over each inch of skin. Then, one slave in the middle began to lick Anastasia’s cunt. Slowly at first, and then with more surety—soft kisses followed by eager, long licks apply just the right amount of pressure.

  When her slaves obeyed, they did so with great enthusiasm. There was no greater pleasure for them than to obey an order from their Mistress. And so, while their experience was not as mindblowingly perfect as it was when they were honored with pleasing their Mistress directly, they still were blissful as they took turns licking Anastasia to madness.

  It was not long before Anastasia began to cum. She tried to hide it—coughing and shaking through her moans of pleasure—but for Celeste, the signs were unmistakable. Her body twisted and shook, her mouth making a perfect round shape of eager surprise.

  The slaves did not let up though, even though she begged them to stop. She did not mean it; there was no way she could mean for them to stop. Nothing that felt that good would ever be unwanted; Anastasia spoke from some last pale vestiges of propriety, rapidly being eroded by one lick after another.

  And so, as the slaves licked and licked at her sister’s cunt, encouraging her to cum, and cum, and cum again...Celeste fingered her hot immortal cunt, flicking at her cunt, watching her sister’s mind and will melt into nothingness.

  Needless to say, she kept her masturbating self within eyesight of Anastasia—and that singularly erotic sight did more to warp her sister’s mind than a thousand slaves licking her could have done.

  And soon...soon she would know where the Djinn Stone had hid itself from her, and then her power would be absolute.

  * * * * *

  Where the fuck is she?

  Gwen had been thinking this exact thought—and very little else—for the past twenty minutes as she waited for her girlfriend to come out to the parking lot.

  Her anger was unreasonable. She knew this. It often was. Gwen had a temper, as her therapist was fond of telling her, and it wasn’t fair to the rest of the world to take this temper out on them. After all, whatever she was angry about was probably just some fear or unresolved issue with herself.

  Perhaps even Phoebe’s lateness was tied to Gwen’s own deep-rooted fear of abandonment, brought upon by her mother’s absence in her life at a very young age.

  And if Gwen were able to sit and concentrate very hard, to clear her mind and accept the stark reality of her heated emotions, it’s probable this was what she would realize and even come to accept, coming closer still to full acceptance of her emotional state than she was than the last time she had to deal with this sort of issue. It would be real, significant progress.

  But none of that mattered at this particular moment, because Phoebe was fucking late and Gwen was fucking pissed and wasn’t it just like that blond bimbo to just totally forget that she was supposed to be somewhere with her fucking girlfriend?

  “Not like I matter, I guess,” Gwen ranted to her empty, sweltering hot car. “Can’t skip one lousy class to hang out with me, and now you can’t even show up on time so I can take you home, I mean what the fuck, Phoebe. Not like I had things to do today. Not like I wanted to fucking make us some dinner, for fuck’s sake.”

  Phoebe, of course, said nothing, because she was not there. Gwen was well-used to building up arguments against no one at all present; she tried to do so to organize her thoughts so that when she actually met the person in question, her offense would be sudden, exacting, and indefensible.

  Her method was blitzkrieg. It often left Phoebe in tears and then Gwen felt awful, and had to cycle through a series of suddenly-carefully-constructed apologies, which were always heartfelt and sincere.

  Then came the make-up sex.

  It was a massively hot day and Gwen did not have the car running so she could feel the air conditioning. She didn’t exactly make a lot of money from her job as a Customer Service Representative at the Camping Equipment Expo, and every little bit had to be saved. She could only afford to take a few classes at a time, and it was just her rotten luck that one of them had to be with Phoebe's boss.

  Sweat ran down her brow, soaking the neckline of her tight gray shirt. Her nipples were showing; yelling actually got her blood up, making her rather sexually excited. Usually, most of her fights with Phoebe ended with three hours of lovemaking.

  It wasn’t exactly a terrific system for showing passion, but it was passion, and that was something new for Phoebe, who had grown up i
n such a stuck-up W.A.S.P.ish household that showing any sort of preference was tantamount to blasphemy.

  Twenty one minutes now. That was too long—too long by half, when twenty minutes was barely acceptable. Was this real math, or was this just her emotional algebra? It didn't matter—Gwen was mad.

  She roared out from the car, snatching up her purse and slamming the door shut. Her legs were long and she wore tight blue jeans, her hair short and dark and streaked with red dye. She had the sort of skinny build of a girl who stayed up way too late, ate way too little, and subsisted on too much caffeine and nicotine. Phoebe had mostly convinced her to give up the smokes, but goddamn if this sort of thing didn’t make Gwen want to go back to her old ways.

  Sometimes a good storming was needed. And so Gwen stormed through the campus, hounding down her girlfriend with all the knowledge she had at her disposal. The place to start would be with that dickhead professor of hers, Jacob Lawton, to see if he had seen Phoebe.

  And maybe, maybe she’d give him a piece of her mind too.

  After all, wasn’t all this shit his fault? If he had just let Phoebe go, if he had taught his own class like he was fucking supposed to, then Phoebe wouldn’t have been late, now would she?

  What an asshole. She would give him a piece of her mind, and she’d make damn sure he’d think twice before crossing her again.

  His office was small and at the end of the hallway in the shabby liberal arts building. The whole campus was shabby, really, but the liberal arts building was in disrepair. It was more like anti-repair. She could have sworn she had seen a few handymen there earlier in the week just tearing out electrical wiring from the wall without bothering to replace it or cover up the hole.