Creation Mage 5

by Dante King

  The girls laughed amongst themselves, and there was a fair bit of elbow nudging at this.

  “You’re not going to want to pull out,” Madame Xel said. “You’re only human.”

  “And not just only human,” Cecilia teased me, “but a human man. They’re not known for their willpower when it comes to self-control in the bedroom.”

  I clutched at my chest, assuming the pose of one of those who has been mortally wounded.

  “I will try my best!” I said. “For the good of all of us.”

  “Gods, I can’t wait for this. You’re going to struggle!” Janet said.

  “Sacrifices will be made, Janet,” I said with a solemnity that was ruined by the grin that spread across my face.

  “How is it that you think this will work again?” Enwyn said, a frown creasing her face. She was a little more cynical than the others.

  “Well, scientifically, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” I asked. “You only need a little bit of cum to make a baby, right? And a bit of magic to create a spell? The idea follows doesn’t it?”

  The women all looked at me then, then looked at each other. It was one of those timeless looks that have passed between groups of women ever since we all came down out of the trees and men started making asses of themselves. I interpreted that look to mean that they were skeptical as to just how much thought I had put into this decision.

  I knew the women were all on some kind of magical version of birth control, so finishing off in any one of them wouldn’t suddenly lead to surprise Justin Juniors.

  After a moment, Cecilia stepped forward and patted my cheek. Her other hand reached up behind her and unclipped her bra and let it fall to the floor.

  “Ladies, Justin hasn’t let us down once yet,” she said. “And let’s face it, even if he’s wrong and nothing comes of this,” she wriggled out of her own underwear and stood there in all her elegant glory. “Then it’s still going to be bloody fun, I say we go for it…”

  It went without saying that what eventuated was, indeed, very fun.

  The six women, like the most well-behaved and submissive little sex slaves that any man could ask for, all climbed onto the bed and kenlt at the edge of it, one next to the other. Their naked asses faced me, like a far more explicit version of the famous back catalogue poster of Pink Floyd.

  After a lot of warming up and dirty talk, spanking and fingering, I slid my pole into Odette’s waiting wet vagina and began fucking away. As the newest member of the little harem that seemed to be forming around me, I felt like the least I could do was welcome Odette with an evening she wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  From her, at one end, I moved onto Janet who opened her legs wide to accommodate me. Then to Cecilia, Enwyn, Madame Xel, and Alura, and back along the line again.

  It took a little while, and the night wore on somewhat, but after a while, I could feel myself on the cusp of a ball-shriveling orgasm. The girls really did their parts in exacerbating the hotness of the scenario; yelling out and talking dirty to each as I boned them all in turn. Cecilia got especially into the orgy, making sure to rub at the clits of Janet and Enwyn, who were on either side of her when she wasn’t getting fucked herself.

  With that all too familiar burst of sudden ecstasy, I returned just in time to Odette and said, “Oh, shit, here it comes!”

  I plunged my pecker into her and convulsed, sending a burst of cum into her. Odette exhaled hard through her nose, and I was pretty sure that a twin burst of flame blasted briefly from her nostrils—some vestige of her dragonkin blood coming through, perhaps.

  Then, grabbing my cock by the base, I slid it out of Odette and into Cecilia and let her have some of my seed too. Frost flashed across Cecilia’s skin, before melting away into nothing.

  I continued this all the way down the line, each woman’s body reacting in a different way as I came in them. Fire licked down Enwyn’s back, Janet's hair stood on end and crackled with static electricity, Madame Xel’s skin turned as red as any cartoon devil’s before fading back to its original color, and it ended with me stabbing my prick into the unique, velvety coolness of Alura’s box and making her glow like a star that had fallen to earth.

  It was Janet who handed me my spellbook this time, as we all lay on the bed and fought to get our breath back. I found the spell straight away this time, turning to the page on my first attempt.

  Abomination

  Summon a creature from the depths of the void. Beware: the abomination has no allies. It will consume friend and foe alike.

  I read the spell aloud to the women.

  “That doesn’t sound entirely promising, does it?” Enwyn said. “Potentially helpful, but if you can’t control it…”

  “I’ve seen one of these things before,” I said. “It appeared in our dungeon once, when Igor was engraving regeneration wards in our dungeon. Before we busted Barry out of that prison. The Abomination was...formidable.”

  Janet lay a hand on my chest.

  “Do you reckon that what we did was a waste of time?” she asked.

  “Fuck no!” I said. “Are you kidding me? I must be the luckiest guy in this universe. Maybe in any universe!”

  Janet grinned and kissed my chest. “I mean, do you think that the spell we just created was a waste of space in your spellbook?”

  I shrugged. There was no point thinking about that now. Better to be philosophical about it.

  “I think that it’s only going to be of any real use during the Mage Games,” I said carefully. “Where there are regeneration runes. This is not the sort of spell that you can cast for the fun of it. It could really fuck up Nevermoor, if I were to just release it in the street, say.”

  “I think that’s a commendable principle that is worth sticking to, Justin,” Alura said approvingly. She was snuggled in next to Enwyn who was spooning her and stroking her hair.

  “Or if we come upon a colony of trolls,” I added on sudden inspiration. “If we get jumped by a bunch of those assholes again, I’ll quite happily unleash a goddamn Abomination right in the middle of their village, grab some popcorn, and watch it run amok.”

  “How genocidal of you,” Janet said, in her tongue-in-cheek way.

  “It seems your talk with your father has rubbed off on you a little, darling,” Cecilia said.

  “Shit, I hope not,” I said. “I think it’s going to take a bit more than just a brief conversation with Zenidor before he can convince me that mass murderer is the way to sort out the world’s problems, whether he’s my old man or not.”

  Our conversation was cut into then by a dull, harsh, blaring noise emanating from the spellbook that I had tossed onto my bedside table.

  “What the…” I said, snatching it up.

  The book, completely of its own accord, opened itself in my palm. The pages blurred and then suddenly stopped at a page near the end of the book. There, written in a beautiful cursive script, were the words,

  CONGRATULATIONS,

  YOU HAVE ATTAINED YOUR HARD LIMIT.

  SEE INSCRIBERS FOR MORE INFORMATION.

  “Well,” I said, snapping the spellbook shut and replacing it back on the bedside table, “that’ll have to do.”

  “What do you mean?” Alura asked. “I thought this study session was bound to stretch into the night.”

  I repeated the message to the assembled naked ladies. Enwyn gasped.

  “Gods, I’ve never heard of someone as young as you reaching their hard limit!” she said, her voice thick with awe. “You must be the youngest mage in centuries to do this thing!”

  I shrugged and, with more than a little difficulty thanks to the tangle of long legs and groping arms, hauled myself up from the bed.

  “I was lucky,” I said. “I wouldn’t have come nearly so far if it wasn’t for you all.”

  “You wouldn’t have come nearly so far, nor nearly so often, darling,” Cecilia said.

  I laughed heartily as I made my way to the ensuite and the shower. “I don’t think a truer wor
d was ever spoken, Miss Chillgrave!”

  After we had all taken turns in the shower—some of the girls choosing to go in pairs and have some fun while they were at it—we all made a big nest on the floor. The rugs and carpets in my room were mostly soft fur, and there were plenty of pillows to spare in the spare bedrooms. With my enormous bedspread pulled off the bed, we ended up with a layout that reminded me of a cross between an opium den and the lounge of some Ottoman emperor.

  “Now, ladies, there’s not many hours until the match begins, and I better catch up on my sleep,” I said, once we had all settled into position and got comfy.

  The lights dimmed and faded away, as if the room knew we were settling down for the night. The light of a big yellow moon peeked sporadically through the clouds outside. All was peace.

  As I lay there, in the middle of a half-dozen stunning sleepy women, I couldn’t help but think how amazing my life was. I mean, it really was a trip. I felt that it kept going from strength to strength, and just when I thought that my adventures had peaked, along came another insane mission, or another mind-blowing sexual encounter.

  Yeah, things certainly had turned around for me, ever since Enwyn had found me in my uncle’s bookstore.

  A hand, which could have belonged to any of the women present, ran up my thigh and caressed my cock. I smiled to myself and closed my eyes.

  Now all that I had to do was focus on the Qualifiers tomorrow, somehow find my mother’s white staff, and, if the whole magic dying out thing happened to be true, there was that to deal with too.

  Easy peasy, I thought drily.

  With all that floating around in my head, I was skeptical as to whether I’d get any sleep. However, by the time that thought crossed my weary mind, I had been lured to sleep by the wind, moonlight, and—most of all, perhaps—the soft ministrations of that mysterious hand.

  I woke up, eyes wide, immediately alert, the next morning. I felt as quick-witted and awake as someone who had just had an ice-cold bucket of espresso thrown in their face. Around me, the women who I had come to care so much for were all still fast asleep. Sunlight played across smooth skin, wind ruffled loose strands of hair.

  Smiling and pulling the covers up around Alura, I slipped out.

  Hopefully, I’d see them all down at the arena later, along with my fraternity brothers. Now though, I was in the mood for a little me time. A quiet seat out by the pool and a cup of steaming Ifrit coffee loaded with sugar while I got my head in the zone.

  As I stepped out of the room and silently shut the door behind me, I took a deep breath in, held it, and let it out.

  I smiled slowly, feeling my nerves beginning to tingle with anticipation at the thought of the fray to come.

  “Let’s fucking do this thing,” I said, and went in search of coffee.

  Chapter Nine

  I made for the kitchen in search of some of the delicious Ifrit dark roast coffee. The brew claimed to put hair on your chest, a hole in your stomach lining, and send your brain cells hopping like a rabbit with its genitals attached to a car battery.

  When I entered the kitchen, Bradley was already there.

  “Shit, you’re up early, Flamewalker,” I said. “You’re not hungover?”

  Bradley pointed at the ornate silver coffee pot steaming seductively on the island bench.

  “Ah,” I said, running an appreciative hand over the silver handle and pulling the pot toward me, “this Ifrit blend really is the good shit.”

  “Bloody well works miracles,” Bradley agreed, running his hand through his impeccable hair. It was a hairdo that left women sighing in his wake and would have every last hipster wanting to stick his head in a blender.

  Bradley was right about the coffee. That was another thing about the Ifrit blend; it did to hangovers what a Daisy Cutter did to about one square kilometer of jungle.

  I poured myself a generous cup, tossed in four tablespoons of sugar, and felt my brainbox start fizzing. My surroundings took on a rosier glow.

  “So, Brad,” I said, “what the hell are you doing up so early? I was just going to have a cup of Joe and then head out and watch the sunrise before I made my way out to the arena. Sounds like these Qualifiers are going to be an all-day affair. I was just going to catch up with you guys later.”

  Bradley didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he rummaged in a hugely stocked spice rack and mumbled, “Viper bloom….viper bloom… viper—ah!”

  Bradley found a shaker of bright, glowing white powder and executed a bit of fancy wristwork to add some to the scrambled eggs he was cooking. A mouthwatering aroma filled the room.

  “I got up early because it’s the bloody Mage Game Qualifiers, man!” he said, as if he was stating the obvious. “Of all the days when you need a hearty breakfast, this is the one.”

  I eyed the pot of scrambled eggs, the tortillas warming on the hotplate, and the lighted oven dubiously. It all smelled wonderful, but the problem with Bradley being such a good cook was that one often found themselves going in for seconds or thirds. This subsequently led to prolonged periods spent in deep and delightful food comas.

  I explained this to Bradley, saying that today I would need to be pretty light on my feet. I apologized for his wasted effort and the waste of food.

  In response to this, Bradley grinned.

  “Firstly, don’t ever apologize for wasting food,” he said. “As long as we have Rick living in this fraternity house there will never be a crumb that gets thrown away.”

  I nodded my assent to this statement. Rick was, quite literally, a sentient garbage disposal.

  “Secondly,” Bradley continued, “I’ve thought of that. What do you reckon that is for?”

  He pointed a wooden spoon at a small cauldron sitting on the enormous cast-iron stove.

  “Brewing polyjuice potion?” I said over the rim of my coffee cup.

  “What?” Bradley said.

  “Nothing. I have no idea.”

  “Check this out,” Bradley said, with a hint of the old aristocratic smugness that had made me and the rest of the other boys want to deliver a Falcon punch to his perfectly square jaw when we first met him.

  He opened the oven, dexterously used a fish slice to remove a fillet of baking yellow fish, and flipped it into the cauldron.

  “What was that?” I asked as Bradley spooned a few dollops of creamy scrambled eggs into the cauldron.

  “Fillet of ghostshark,” Bradley said. “Very hard to catch and thus very expensive, but incredibly lean and with as much protein per gram as the very best steak.”

  After the eggs, Bradley threw in a few handfuls of spinach from the vegetable patch he had been cultivating in the garden. Lastly, he pulled a metal pan out of one of the other oven hatches and ladled a few dollops of bright red beans into the little cauldron.

  “And those were?” I asked as a delectable aroma filled the kitchen and seemed to caress my smell receptors.

  “Slow-burn beans,” Bradley said, “in a tomato and violet thyme sauce. They’re very similar to lentils, in the way that they release their energy very slowly. A couple of tablespoons of these babies coupled with that ghostshark should mean that you—and the rest of us—barely have to eat all day.”

  Bradley stirred the cauldron, pointed his Flamewalker signet ring at the flame under the pot, and it cranked up a notch. The cauldron began to steam and bubble. After a few minutes of constant hob adjustments, during which time I helped myself to a second cup of coffee, Bradley whisked the cauldron off the stove and upended it over a plate.

  To my amazement, a steaming trapezium-shaped bar slid out of the cauldron and onto the plate.

  “How in the fuck did you do that?” I asked, astounded.

  Bradley frowned at me. “You just saw me cook it.”

  “Yeah, but how did you make it into that shape?” I asked. “You were stirring, for goodness sake. That’s impossible.”

  Bradley chuckled. “That’s bloody magic, man.”

  “Good point
,” I said.

  The bar was marbled with green and red and yellow and white.

  “So, presumably, we have here all the nutritional benefits of the breakfast that you would ordinarily serve up, with only a little of the mass?” I asked.

  Bradley nodded. “It’s a recipe I’ve been working on for the past couple of weeks in my spare time,” he said casually.

  “You mean you made this up?” I asked.

  Bradley nodded.

  “Fuck, man, that’s seriously impressive,” I said. “Even if it tastes like an armpit, the convenience alone probably makes it worth it.”

  I bit into the bar and then looked up at Bradley.

  “Holy hell, it tastes just like eating the meal!” I said.

  Bradley’s look was so haughty that it would have done credit to any three-starred Michelin chef.

  “I wouldn’t create something with so much culinary and commercial potential, and have it taste like ass,” he said. “A man has got to have his pride.”

  I took another bite of the bar and swallowed.

  “You’re going to try and go commercial with these things?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Bradley said. “I want to perfect at least four recipes and then, yeah, I think I’ll go into production. A little side hustle sort of thing. I think they could go very well amongst the War Mage crowd.”

  “I think you’re right, man,” I said.

  I took a slurp of coffee and another bite of the bar and chewed thoughtfully. I was being visited by mental images of Sam and Frodo tucking into their lembas bread in The Two Towers.

  “You know what else this would be good for?” I said thickly through a mouthful of the tasty bar. “This would be perfect for mages going on long journeys or when they have to pack light. It reminds me of MREs back on Earth—the ready-to-eat meals that our soldiers take into battle with them. Except those apparently taste like they’ve already been eaten, digested, and shit out before being packaged.”