When it was all over, they panted for several seconds—before Britney moved to clean Hazel, while Hazel cleaned the King.
A lovely young brown-skinned woman—the royal court's fortune teller, Yolanda, approached the booth—presumably drawn by the sound or the stench. She slipped, though, right in one of the far-reaching shoots of the King's cum.
“Ew,” Yolanda exclaimed, her backside now covered in his juices. “What’s all this?”
She slid one her finger in his spent cum, and held to her face, sniffing it.
“Is this...is this cum?”
It was only then that she turned, seeing the half-naked trio and the scene they made.
“Oh.”
A shadow passed briefly over her face, changing her disposition instantly from surprise to lust. With careful consideration, she slipped the cum directly into her mouth, moaning as she slurped it all down. She crawled over onto her knees, happily sliding through the sticky cum toward her new owner.
“My King. It is so good to kneel for you. How may I serve?”
* * * * *
At three in the afternoon, Estelle’s lunch break finally arrived. She entered the tavern at the edge of the camp, a bit put-off by the odd “closed” sign. Why on earth would it be closed?
Luckily, she had a key—sometimes she had to close the fair down at night, when Hazel or one of the other supervisors was unavailable.
By now, seeing so many people and casting so many little “spells,” she had forgotten her episode with the fetish. All the strong sensations of something surely happening had fled from her, sort of in the way that adrenaline left the body after an almost-accident on the highway.
It had crumbled because it was old, that was all. Old and weird.
The first thing that she noticed inside the tavern was the smell. It positively reeked of sex—and not just sex, but hard, furious fucking that involved lots of sweating and hot juices and plenty of cum.
Then she heard the sounds. Soft, sweet, moans and giggles, filled with delight.
At the other end of the mostly-emptied tavern, Derek was standing in his armor, the color drained out of his face.
“No,” he moaned, shaking his head. Tears streaming down his face. “No...please, no...”
Estelle could not help but feel a warm, happy sense of contentment at his pain. It was twisted, maybe, but it had been a twisted sort of day.
“Estelle!” Derek’s face contorted. “You’ve got to stop...you’ve got to stop them!”
Curious now, Estelle approached.
She saw that the booth he looked at was not so much a booth as multiple booths broken down by someone very strong, all the partitions lifted up and replaced with the cushions from around the tavern. A sort of harem bed.
And what a harem it was.
All the most beautiful girls from the fair—Hazel, the acrobats Claudia and Kylie, the fortune teller Yolanda, the contortionist Anna, and even Derek’s girlfriend Britney—were naked and moaning, vying for position to please the enormous throbbing cock of the hulk of the man at the head of the pile.
The King. They were all moaning and calling him the King.
Oh god.
Estelle was drooling, saliva dripping down from her plush lips. She didn’t care how it looked. She wanted that. She wanted to serve him, and right away.
“Come,” said the stud, his voice booming and perfect. “Take my hand.”
Somehow—she had no idea how—she could sense the magic operating in the tavern. It was clear as day to her now—tendrils of power wrapped around each girl, weighing them down like beautiful chains.
“If I do...” Estelle began, eyeing the chains greedily. “...I will be just like them, won’t I?”
He smiled and nodded. “Yes.”
“And you want that?”
He eyed her greedily. “Very much. I don’t have a proper dark-haired pet yet. And I deserve one.”
He did. God, he truly, totally did. He deserved a witch pet too, someone who could control all that power he swam in...
And she knew, now, that she was a witch. Wasn't that lovely, to know something so completely? She could feel the magic working on her, and allowed it to—let the tendrils slide over her mind, changing her memories and her desires. All those girls looked so perfectly blissful. Estelle wanted that too.
“I will,” she promised. “B-but...but first...”
“A request?”
He grunted a bit, filling up Yolanda's mouth with a spurt of cum. His stock seemed endless. Right away, Anna took her place, sliding onto the meat fountain.
“Yes. May I?”
He waved a massive hand. “Very well.”
“The blonde, there. Britney. She...she was his girlfriend. I want to hear her tell him...” Estelle felt a wicked thrill just knowing how incredibly possible what she hoped for. “Will you have her break his heart?”
“Estelle!” Derek cried. “You foul witch! Y-you can't! I'm a knight! You can't do that to me!”
The King smiled. “Of course she can.” He led Britney up to his cock, pushing aside Yolanda and Anna. “Go on,” he commanded, as Britney began to obediently stroke her Master’s enormous cock. “Tell the inferior what you think of him.”
Britney obeyed happily, so thrilled to do what her new King asked.
“Of course, Sire,” she gushed. “I would adore to, Sire.”
With every fiber of her being so intrinsically worshipful of this King, Britney seemed incapable of malice. And yet, when she turned toward Derek, all that happiness and serenity transformed instantly into spiteful hate and vicious disdain. She cocked an arrogant eyebrow, eyeing him as if he were some worm sliding up onto her dinner plate.
“You and I are done, Derek. We never should have happened in the first place. Our relationship? Nothing but a mistake. Just a waiting game, really, for me to see who my Master was.”
Estelle, hearing all this, could only helplessly begin to finger her cunt. She dropped to her knees, gasping with overwhelming heat. It wasn’t just Derek’s humiliation that turned her on...it was knowing that this new Master had such complete control over Britney, to not only make her say such things—but make her believe them.
And even more than that was the knowledge of the inevitability of the circumstances. The King would take her as well. Completely.
“He’s the one I really love,” Britney continued. “You’re nothing compared to him, Derek. He took my virginity right away. Like a real man. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”
“Stop, please stop,” Derek moaned, clutching his chest. “I’m think I’m gonna...oh god, my heart...Britney...you’re breaking my heart!”
Insult to injury, she had already stopped listening, turning back to her Master and sliding her sopping wet cunt onto his enormous cock.
Derek, thoroughly humiliated, left the tavern, sobbing and gasping, clutching his chest.
Estelle watched him go, completely satisfied and purring with contentment. She crawled forward, approaching on top of the mass of adoring beauties. They didn’t seem to mind her hot, lithe legs sliding in among theirs, her breasts crushing into their faces as she employed them as stools and steps.
“Please,” she moaned to the King. “Please let me lick your hand. Please, take me? Let me serve with them?”
“By all means.”
He held out his hand. With a soft, happy moan, Estelle leaned into it, and licked it softly, languidly, like a cat.
And then everything...everything Changed. Bliss filled her, magic overtook her, rapture became her. All was lost in a parade of white lights and happy feelings.
When her mind returned to itself, she was riding on top of her Master, her King, her Sire, her God, calling out worship for him. His cock filled her so completely. She could feel it deep inside of her torso—of all his slaves, he could fuck her most completely, her witch magic allowing her body to change to accommodate his massive dick.
“Please, cum in me, Sire!” she moaned.
“Please make me pregnant! Cum in my unprotected fucking pussy, oh my god! My King! My King!”
Gripping her small body tight, he came, flooding her pussy with his cum as he bounced her viciously up and down his gigantic shaft. Warmth and bliss flooded her again—orgasming over and over—though this time she happily retained all her conscious being, experiencing it in full.
When at last he stopped twitching inside of her, she lay on top of him, crushing her enormous tits against his huge, broad chest.
Estelle wondered distantly if she was pregnant now. She certainly hoped so. She was glad to still have her mind—glad to still be able to think critically and serve her Master even better with all her capacity.
“I wanted it,” she moaned. “I wanted to be as happy as they are. And I am. And now you have your very own witch at your command, Sir.”
From now on, spell or no spell, he was her King.
# # #
Owned By Bare Lust: The Supermodel
Juliana Santos had made up her mind—she wasn't going to call Nathan Southern.
There was simply no way. She didn't care about him or what hot, delicious ideas he had about her.
Waves crashed up on her body, bursting the completely improper thought of his tall, handsome form pushing down on her again. She pushed her chest out, letting the saltwater gather in her eye-catching cleavage.
She was modeling on a beach in Peru. She had been there for two days already, putting on bikini after bikini, and there were two more days yet to go.
A tiny red string bikini was wrapped around her impossibly hot curves as she stood in the water, the waves continually rushing into her slender, busty form. The thin material of the bikini enhanced the already substantial sight of her breasts and clung desperately to the twin globes of her amazing ass, as if it were as in love with her as anyone else that had ever been so close to her jaw-dropping beauty.
Well, almost anyone else, she thought, once again imagining Nathan.
The photographer, Kevin, lobbed encouraging phrases at her as she stood in the slow, purposeful waves of the water. She turned this way and that, pushing out hot little smiles. One shy, another arrogant, another knowing. Another wave crept up on her ass and she jumped one foot up, dangling it behind her while pressing her gorgeous tits together inside the tiny confines of the bikini. Everything about her was wet, sexy, and sensational.
“You're beautiful,” he said. “Lovely! More of that, with your hair!”
Juliana knew all these things—that she was beautiful, that she was lovely, that more of anything to do with her delicious arrangement of purposefully dampened hair was good.
And she knew, most of all, that she was not going to call Nathan Southern.
She didn't care how many billions he had, or if he owned fourteen island countries and two or three mountains, or if every politician in America was begging for just five minutes of his time so that he could fund yet another successful congress bid for them.
She didn't.
Taking a breath, posing again with her hair sliding out behind her toward the water, Juliana tried to concentrate. Be beautiful, now. Worry about Nathan later.
Or even better, she told herself, don't worry about him at all.
The shoot was going well even if she was distracted. For Juliana, it was impossible for a shoot to go poorly. She was just too gorgeous.
Beauty held no secrets from her. It did not excite her like it seemed to other people. Most men, in her presence, could not pick up the pieces of their crumbled, awestruck selves to spare more than two sentences with her. They seemed totally emasculated by her ability to simply exist in total perfection. Most women seemed to resent her for how effortless she made it seem.
If Juliana were to make it seem less effortless, though, paradoxically it would require more effort than she usually put in.
The focus on her beauty made her angry at times. It wasn't her fault her Brazilian genes had gifted her with incredibly soft, smooth skin, or large, bright emerald green eyes, or lusciously full lips, or angelic cheekbones, or a body with the kind of tight musculature that would make a gymnast squeal with envy and the kind of large, gravity-defying breasts that most men didn't even think existed outside of magazines.
She had been born with all of this, and yet she wasn't supposed to enjoy it. And if she dared to enjoy it, she certainly wasn't supposed to be proud of it. But, a woman born with sensational ability in running was supposed to run, was supposed to enjoy it, was supposed to be proud of her running accomplishments. These kinds of standards bothered Juliana—but she tried to keep it out of her mind. If she thought about how much she liked being beautiful, all kinds of thoughts popped up . . .
I know exactly what you are, slut.
The daylight started to fade. Kevin snapped a few final shots of Juliana as she hopped through the waves, letting it crash into her delectable breasts. Her hot, wet tits were the subject of dozens of magazine covers.
“Let's call it a day, hon,” said Kevin. “I got a few beers calling my name.”
Juliana nodded and stepped out of the water. Her assistant, Shana, was there with a thick, fluffy white towel. Shana was fairly new—only working for Juliana for the past six months or so—but she was good at her job.
A short girl, slim and busty, she was always attentive and cheerful, her pretty face always crowded with a fun-loving smile. Juliana appreciated that—she liked having positive energy surround her.
“How about you?” Kevin asked her. “Will we finally see the reclusive Ms. Santos out at night once again?”
She smiled and shook her head, wrapping the towel around her waist.
“No, I don't think so. A quiet night for me. Some television and yoga.”
He waved a hand at her, shaking his head.
“You ought to go out, you young thing. You're missing out on the best years of your life!”
She smiled and shook her head again.
She liked Kevin. He was honest with her at all times, and he didn't treat her like a goddess just because she existed. Being around beauty all the time, like she was, had given his mind a healthy dose of immunity to the hot curves she couldn't help but advertise.
With Shana behind her, Juliana walked back toward the small house her agency had arranged for her. Though it was not large, it was more luxurious than any other dwelling in a thirty mile radius. It had full air-conditioning, electricity, running hot water, gorgeous wooden floors and paneling, and a hot tub in the bathroom. Her success allowed her certain privileges such as these.
These privileges pressed the burning, sensitive guilt button that took up a large portion of her brain. If she had to be honest, though she was a respected, hot up-and-coming model, much of her success simply wasn't her doing.
For the last six years, ever since she had turned eighteen, she had been in the world's top runway shows as the main event. Men paid extra to see her walk live in what small bits of clothing they had her wear. As the highest paid model in the world, she could name her desire and have it attended to in just moments.
Always, she felt guilty about this, even as she felt she deserved it in many ways (and of course feeling guilty for that feeling as well).
So, she gave an incredibly large portion of her money to charity—over seventy-five percent of her income last year (this still netted her deep in the top ten percent of income earners, though). Charities for disease prevention, clean water, poverty elimination, education in small urban schools from her hometown in Brazil and all the areas surrounding it—anything that needed money, she tried to give it out.
On top of all of that, she carried a degree from an ivy league university that she had earned during her years traveling. She had a lot of time to do schoolwork in hotels and airports.
Just a month ago, she spoke at a summit about the objectification of women and the false images of beauty that had given her a career.
It was important to her to spread the truth about beauty—how it was just a collection
of inherited ideals from centuries of privilege. She tried her best to put the focus on her words, and not on her splendid body. But even in the long skirt and conservative sweater she wore at the event, there was no hiding the sensuality of her face.
Sliding open the door of the small house where she stayed, Juliana reflected on the same words she had spoken at the summit. She had won a genetic lottery—there was no doubt about that. From her perfect 36C breasts, her slim eighteen inch waist, her gorgeous dark hair, or her extravagantly blemish-free skin, anyone could tell from hundreds of feet away what a natural beauty she was. It wasn't her fault that she could eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and barely put on weight.
So, yes, she tried to explain at the summit, she had benefited enormously from this legacy of beauty. But oughtn't we try to change what that legacy was to be more inclusive?
It was on the summit where she met Nathan Southern. After she had spoken, he cornered her in the little office where they had her prepare.
That's where he called her all those names.
Whore.
Ornament.
Slavecunt.
Her thoughts drifted far too often to him, her pussy shuddering helplessly every time she did.
She thought she was so fiercely independent. How had he gotten this hold over her mind?
Right inside her door was a package.
“Did you leave this here, Shana?”
Juliana's thick, Brazilian accent layered over her words like icing. For a long time, when she had first been learning English, she tried to reduce her accent—but people seemed more pleased when it remained.
The slim, blonde girl picked up the package, shaking her head. Whatever was inside did not rattle or shift.
“No. Do you want me to check it? It might be something . . . you know. Wrong or something.”
Juliana shook her head. “I appreciate the concern, but no. If someone was going to leave me something dangerous, they'd threaten me first. That's just how it goes.”
The Owned By Studs Bundle Page 7
