Cantrips: Volume #2: Minor Magics Crafted to Amuse and Entertain

by Joey W. Hill

  As Grace started to fall over that edge, Agnes's lips parted, a pleading look in her eye. Grace shook her head, denying her, making her wait, making it draw out until Agnes was in sensual agony, crying out. Only then did Grace let her go over, crying out her own pleasure. As they moved together as rhythmically as the ocean, she let those waves get higher and higher, holding Agnes with her, spinning in that cataclysmic surf. At the peak of that shared pleasure, she bit Agnes's throat, her fangs piercing her and the third mark flooding her. Agnes surged against her with a scream of pleasure.

  Grace had never given anyone the third mark, so the experience was as new to her as to Agnes. Though she'd been told what it was like, words did not come close to it. When she looked at the vastness of the ocean, she couldn't imagine ever understanding the depths of all its mysteries. Yet this was like being immersed in it fully while holding all of it in her cupped hands. She felt Agnes register that connection in a way that was different but the same, that absolute surrender and belonging to another soul. It was something she'd explored and experienced with Dan in some ways, so it wasn't entirely unfamiliar and shocking to her, but the depths of this was beyond human imagination. It was not just desiring or hoping for that connection; it was real, immutable, permanent. Forever belonging fully to another, in every possible way.

  Agnes's expression was swept with wonder, for Grace left her shields down so Agnes could see that connection clearly, feel the depths of it fully. As a witch, her honed spiritual senses gave her even more input on that than a normal human would experience. As they slowly came back down, still locked together in mind and soul the way they'd ascended, Grace never wanted to let go or draw back.

  The third mark also bound Agnes's mortality to hers, so that if Grace died, Agnes went with her. In return, as long as Grace lived, or until three hundred years had passed, Agnes would be hers, alive and hers, beyond the touch of any human disease. The only thing that could take her from Grace was a stake of metal through the heart. Any who threatened her that way, who even thought of threatening her that way, would die before the thought was complete. Thinking of it, Grace embraced the savagery that lived so close to the surface of a vampire's nature, to protect what was hers with harsh impunity.

  Grace at length shifted next to Agnes. They lay quietly for awhile by the fire, Agnes getting her breath back and Grace not thinking of anything, just experiencing the bliss. It was like when time had stopped with the Lord and Lady, and she wondered if that was the lesson. Such divine power was only as far away as the nearest loved one.

  Agnes shifted to her side, propping herself on her elbow. She tugged on the edge of the furs and Grace allowed it, watching her third mark servant study Grace's body, her palm spanning Grace's abdomen, thumb caressing the indentation of her navel. With the second mark, she could hear Agnes's thoughts and deduce her feelings. With the third mark, she felt everything Agnes felt, so when her gaze lifted back to Grace, Grace was hit full impact by the mix of sadness and unspeakable joy Agnes was experiencing.

  "He will be ours," Grace told her fiercely. "Yours as much as mine."

  When Agnes's eyes filled with tears anew, Grace lifted onto her elbows and captured her mouth with her own, lifting a hand to cradle her face, caress her throat. Unable to resist, she pushed Agnes to her back again. Curling her hands around Agnes's wrists, she held them to either side of her, pinning her as she bit her neck, her shoulder, a scattering of bites that had Agnes murmuring in pleasure and initial little cries of pain. The third mark was not enough. Grace wanted her marked, over and over. She tasted her blood, closed the wounds with her tongue, held her, rocked her. I will be here for every moment of sadness or joy, moppet. I won't let you be alone with their loss. I'll help you through all of it.

  We'll help each other. Agnes lifted wet eyes to her, but also freed a hand to caress Grace's cheek. The wisdom in the woman's eyes caused something to tremble deep inside of Grace. Grace had not lost a husband or child, but they'd all belonged to her. She'd lost as much of her family as Agnes had, as they all had. They would all help each other.

  Grace slid an arm around Agnes's back in profound gratitude, and awe for a two-way comfort that was still unexpected, even after forty-two years of finding the miracle of Sanctity. As she did, though, she was distracted from the intense moment by a different texture on Agnes's skin. It couldn't be scarring, for Agnes hadn't had any of the swellings in that spot. Grace had never marked a servant before, but suddenly she knew what it must be, what it had to be.

  Sitting up, she made Agnes turn over, shifting her onto her lap and holding her naked body there, her hand caressing Agnes between the legs split over her knee, her rump raised in the air in a provocative way. "Oh," Agnes said faintly, and Grace saw a flash in her mind that inspired a fang-baring smile and a few answering fantasies of her own. She restrained herself—at least for now—to focus on other things. Mostly.

  "We're going to get this fattened up again," Grace said, rubbing one hand over her arse. "Then I'll enjoy strapping and smacking it as much as you deserve. Right now I'm afraid your bones will poke through."

  "Evil shrew," Agnes said, trying to twist around. "What are you touching now? It feels...odd. Is it something the sickness left?"

  "Not at all. Don't be afraid, moppet. Be still. It's a mark. Your third mark." Grace traced the marking over each of Agnes’s shoulder blades. When Agnes realized what they were, she stilled. Dear Lord and Lady...

  It was the outline of a pair of angel wings. While it was a fitting third mark, Grace still felt a tightening in her gut. One day her Agnes would be an angel, or pass into the angels' arms, and she would be left alone. No. Not alone. She'd have her son. Which would be enough for awhile. When it wasn't, well, she'd become an empty vessel again, let it all go and go back to Agnes's arms. It would be a life well worth living.

  As she let the shadows go so anticipation for all of it could fill her, she couldn't resist. She gave Agnes's pretty arse, diminished though it was, a nice pop, and enjoyed the way Agnes squirmed on her lap, her breasts pressing against Grace's leg. "Just wait until I use a belt on it, hmm? Like that one time Dan threatened to take his belt to you for being contrary? He was teasing you, until he realized it excited you. Did he do it?"

  "Yes." Agnes's cheeks pinkened. "He did. And we...well, you know."

  Actually, Grace didn't know. While it had piqued Dan's interest and goaded his lust, it had done the same to Grace, so much she hadn't lurked in Agnes's mind to hear her thoughts on it or the results. With the third mark, though, she would be able to see through Agnes's eyes like her own. She still had her mind open to Agnes, so Agnes saw that information, as well as understood Grace hadn't known what had happened between her and Dan that night. She cleared her throat, adjusting in a casual way that drew Grace's eyes back to her bare bottom, the tempting plump lips between them, glistening with her response.

  You little tease... But she held that thought, a painful smile in her heart as Agnes gave her the gift of the memory.

  "He wasn't sure of it, at first, but I teased him until he bent me over the kitchen table, lifted my skirts and gave me three healthy whacks. It made him hard as kindling, the way I responded, and he took me right there. Then he wrapped both his arms around me, held me so close I couldn't breathe..."

  Oh Dan... Sensual memory gave way to loss and Agnes closed her eyes, pressing her face to Grace's leg. Grace bent over her, playfulness dissipating as she turned Agnes and held her in her lap, giving and receiving comfort. Then Agnes's attention shifted, her fingers moving between them to splay over Grace's stomach.

  "Oh, Gracie... You're going to have a son."

  The ebullience touched her, but a darker thought did as well, one Grace supposed all mothers faced and feared. She would deliver him into the world, give it the gift of his existence, yet the world might take him from her. She might have to relinquish him to death while she still lived, as Agnes had had to do with her son, far too soon. He was no more than a wisp i
n her womb, yet the thought alone was enough to paralyze her. Grace's arms tightened around Agnes. She would be there for her servant, and would help her deal with the unimaginable loss Grace understood far better now. The Lord and Lady had given them a gift beyond description to help them both.

  Daegan. Daegan Rei.

  The name appeared in her mind, along with a frisson of power that lifted the hair on her arms. Agnes raised her head, her senses attuned to that energy wave. "Did the Lord and Lady just..."

  "I don't know. They must have. But it fits. It will fit. It means Dark Ghost, but he will bring light back to us. We'll love him, Agnes. Together. You, me and the village will raise him. He'll bring us hope and life again."

  "A birth that will bring hope to the world. To our little world." Agnes's eyes sparkled with the brilliance of love, life and loss. "There's no better Yule gift than that."

  The End

  Doms And Sisters

  A vignette featuring characters from the Knights of the Board Room Series.

  Originally Posted November 2016

  Background: In Hostile Takeover, there was a hint that Lucas had a “sisters” fantasy enjoying Cass and Marcie in a shared erotic BDSM encounter (with Ben’s participation of course!). Marcie herself had some pretty explicit fantasies in that regard. This vignette explores that fantasy – for real!

  Part One

  Marcie opened eyes swollen from crying. She’d done a lot of that tonight. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, sometimes from the pain, sometimes from the orgasms, sometimes from being held on the edge of a climax so powerful that she’d felt like what’s-her-name staked out on the cliffs for the Kraken, the waves pounding her, over and over. Her body was still vibrating with them, like the rhythmic sense of movement after spending a day in the surf. She and Ben had done at the beach a couple months ago, swimming and body surfing at the Outer Banks. Eventually, they’d moved past the surf line so she could twine her limbs around him and be held close in his strong arms, her breasts resting against his chest, his distracting mouth on her throat as they rose and fell over the gentler swells.

  “What was her name?” Her voice was slurred.

  “Hmm, brat?” Her Master leaned over her, pressing those same tempting lips to her quivering shoulder.

  “That Harry Hamlin movie we watched. The girl staked out on the cliffs. What was her name?”

  “Andromeda.”

  “That’s it.” She winced as he rubbed salve into the welts he’d left on her ass, back and thighs, but they felt better since he’d immersed her in a hot bath. He’d joined her as he always did, holding her in the cradle of his thighs and arms while the soothing salts and soaps did their work on the marks left from the wrapping and tipping of the cane. She’d moved past the embarrassment she’d initially felt when he’d take her so far down this road that she’d lose control of all bodily functions. She was his. He could do whatever he wished to her, because in session or out, she trusted him absolutely. He terrified her, loved her, punished her and drove her to an edge impossible to describe.

  She could wryly joke this was just another night for the two of them, but this had been somewhat different. He’d integrated true punishment into it, a clearing of the slate. When she’d risked her life to help save Max’s, the former SEAL and K&A limo driver who’d gotten into a sticky situation with some drug dealers, Ben had promised he’d exact his retribution. He didn’t disagree with her helping Max; it was just the principle of the thing. If she was going to risk his property, he was taking his pound of flesh to help her remember the consequences of doing so, so that she didn’t do it casually.

  There’d also been an additional component to his enthusiasm tonight. She’d recently made her career change official, enrolling in the police academy to become one of New Orleans’ finest. Considering a normal night on patrol in New Orleans would routinely put her in harm’s way, she might find herself suffering his punishment on a weekly basis. She shivered with desire and dread at the thought.

  “If Janet had been okay with it, I would have made Max hold you while I administered that last caning,” Ben said grimly. “That’s the worst punishment I could have devised for him.”

  “He never would have stood for it. Probably would have broken your legs, and I like your legs. He doesn’t really get this, between you and me.”

  “I think he gets it enough, but you’re right, it would have torn him apart inside. Which would have been my point. But I’m not that kind of sadist.”

  Speaking of someone not getting something; or rather, someone who wasn’t quite at the level she and Ben were at with each other… She suspected this might be the best time to raise the topic, since they were in mellow space right now. “You know, Lucas’s birthday is coming up.”

  “Yeah. He’s going to be one year closer to being dead and less a pain in my ass.”

  “You love him and wouldn’t know what to do without him,” she corrected. “I was talking to Cass about what he might want for his birthday.”

  “All right. We’ll talk about that. But not right now.” He made it an order, softening it with a stroke of her head, and her aching flesh. “Just drift.”

  He knew her well. She could spend a couple hours floating on the edge of subspace, dozing in and out of consciousness, and she did so now. When she opened her eyes again, she thought an hour had passed. She was alone on the bed, but he’d stayed where he could see her, at his desk across the room. He wore a T-shirt and a ratty pair of jeans so worn and soft they clung to all the good parts of him. And there really weren’t any bad parts to Ben O’Callahan. Well, except the parts a woman would want to be bad.

  She knew he’d stayed close partly because he took his responsibility as her Dom seriously; the other part was he didn’t like even a wall to block his view of her when they had time together. The first time she’d realized that, it had warmed her deeply. Ever since, it had never failed to elicit the same reaction.

  She slid from the bed on weak knees. His lids flickered, so she knew he was aware of her movements. Their bedroom was the size of two rooms now, because he’d removed the non-load-bearing wall between it and the adjacent office area. The bedroom part was dominated by the antique canopy bed that was sturdy as a rooted oak tree. A good thing, since its stability was regularly tested. He’d done the caning when she’d been standing and tied spread-eagle against the footboard frame. If the bed didn’t weigh a ton, she might have pushed it right into the wall from how she was jerking against the blows.

  One of the two Civil-war era wardrobes in the room held an impressive array of toys, including the wood cane he’d used on her. The bed was hung with sheer drapes that smelled like lavender when the ceiling fan gently turned, as it did now.

  The office side had two facing desks with their computers and work-related stuff. It also had a large flat screen, a mini-bar with snacks and drinks, and a recliner chair wide enough for her to curl up at his side when he left the bed as he sometimes did in the middle of the night and watched TV. Sometimes he carried her with him, since she’d refuse to let go, her arms wound around him in the bed. After he settled her next to him, her head on his chest and body folded in his lap, she’d listen to the pleasant drone of the TV as she slept and dreamed.

  She didn’t think he’d be watching much TV tonight. He slept better when he’d worn her out like this. While there were those even inside their world who would never comprehend how taking a pound of flesh from the woman he loved helped exorcise his demons, or how it fulfilled and restored her to help him find that center, he and she did, and that was all that mattered. It wouldn’t have worked if she didn’t crave every blow, every punishment, as much as she craved his tenderness afterward, all part of the aftercare he gave her on every level—physical, emotional, spiritual. She had her own demons that needed to be exorcised at the end of his lash, cane, hand…whatever he thought would work best. He could make vicious use of kitchen implements and then prepare her a dinner with them equal to what was o
ffered by a five-star restaurant.

  The world saw a cocky lawyer, a dangerous shark who would eviscerate his opponents without mercy in business and in defense of his friends, and those things were real and true. As real and true as what lay beneath that.

  She assumed they were still in scene protocol, for he’d not yet spoken the words that released her from it, so she came and knelt by him. As she waited, she studied his bare feet, braced on the wood slat beneath his desk. After about five minutes, he spoke, not looking away from his computer screen. "What is it, brat?"

  "I'd like to wear one of your shirts."

  "Which one?"

  "The one you're wearing now," she said, a tiny smile touching her face as she kept her head bowed. It was a T-shirt she'd bought him at the last Mardi Gras, a trio of brown and gold skeleton musicians playing their saxophones. The shirt was an off-white color that molded to his powerful upper body in a pleasing way. However, she wanted to actually see the pectorals covered in a light mat of gleaming dark hair, the sectioned abs, the ripple of muscle as he moved. She also wanted the smell and heat of his skin against her.

  He sighed. “I’m feeling shy. What's your second choice?”

  She glanced toward the second wardrobe, where the dress shirt he'd worn for work was hooked on the top of the door next to his silk tie. He'd looped that tie around her throat once or twice tonight, holding her life in his big hands, his green eyes on her face as she experienced the euphoria of that precisely measured breath restriction. "I want to wear that one."

  "The one I wore today? That I sweated in during that conference call with Mitchener Electronics?"

  "You never sweat. You had them by the balls before they even called."