Date: Fri, 12 Apr 2024 14:13:43 +0000
From: Rio Mack <badprose@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Deadheads of No Hope 4

THE DEADHEADS OF NO HOPE
by Rio Mack

DISCLAIMER: Contains depictions of straight and gay sex.

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WREN

Wren Damson lived in one of the huge, old houses of Prospect Park, a large,
three-story, Georgian-style mansion, kitty-corner across from Tower Hill,
the name given to the neighborhood's small public park, spread out around
an old water tower, the roof of which looked like a witch's hat. The park
included, besides the water tower, two tennis courts (usually in use when
the weather even barely permitted), an excellent sledding hill, and a long
lawn, studded with a few massive oaks.

Wren had moved there from Northern Minnesota, to live with her Uncle
Dexter, when she was thirteen, after her mother died (she'd never known her
father). Anne, her mother, had left instructions in her will, appointing as
her daughter's guardian either her brother or sister, both of whom were
single and childless.

Uncle Dexter was the most logical choice, as he'd been living alone in that
large, roomy house on Tower Hill for years -- the home in which he, Anne,
and their sister Marlo had grown up. Dexter had moved back home from
Chicago about ten years earlier, to care for his ailing mother, who died
five years later.

Af his mother's death, Dexter decided to stay on in the huge house, left
him by his mother as recompense for his kind and loving end-of-life
care-giving. Dexter had realized, during that second stay in his childhood
home, how much he loved the house and missed the neighborhood and the
city. With a home he owned outright, as well as the rest of his large
inheritance, Dexter saw no need to resume the job he'd found when he
returned to Minneapolis (playing piano in a downtown theatre's house
orchestra, backing touring companies for popular Broadway shows).

Dexter decided, instead, to enjoy the peaceful solitude of an early
retirement, all by himself in that huge house. He joined the near-by campus
gym (as an alumnus), read voraciously, and played music for hours on end
most days, on the grand piano in his home's large, first-floor sun room.

At least, such was his routine until Wren came to stay with him after Anne
died, only a year after their mother had passed. Dexter had always loved
his niece, but their bond became eternally strong, right from the moment
he'd arrived at the door of his late sister's house, to drive Wren back to
Minneapolis with him. Her small shattered psyche trying pathetically to
stay sweet and chipper at first, until she collapsed, sobbing
uncontrollably on her uncle's shoulder.

The two of them began to laugh through their tears at the number of times
Dexter had to pull into rest stops, on their drive back to the Cities, to
try and comfort the sad, frail wreck of a girl who cried almost the whole
four-hour drive home.

Wren had always loved her uncle and would grow to love him even more, like
an actual parent rather than just a relative, over those first few weeks of
their somber reunion, as he lavished all the care and love on her he could
-- more, even, than what he'd given his own beloved mother. Wren
appreciated how, right from the start, her uncle did everything he could to
make this new home situation of hers as wonderful as possible.

She would never forget that first night back in the Damson House. Dexter
had decided Wren should have the biggest bedroom in the house (her
grandmother's old one) because he felt a young girl should have a large,
spacious area all for herself, her own private world, one big enough to
surround herself with everything she needed to dream away the hours she
spent alone, as well as afford her plenty of room to entertain the friends
a darling girl like her was sure to make.

He'd cleaned and tidied the space as well as he could before he headed out
on the drive up to Grand Marais to fetch his niece home, piling the huge
bed high with soft, warm, comfy blankets and quilts.

When she'd finally gone to bed that evening, snuggled under extravagantly
abundant layers of bedclothes (which would become her obsession), she lay
there and realized she wasn't afraid here, as she thought she'd be (as she
almost always was now). She wondered at the time whether it wasn't the
spirit of her kind, strong, wonderful grandmother, whose bed she was now
in, coming to her when she needed her most, but maybe it was really the
inspiring love and concern and devotion she felt from Dexter from the
moment he came to deliver her from her hell Up North, and would feel from
him from then on.

Dexter and Wren bonded so perfectly wonderfully beautifully together, that
within a year of Wren moving in, Auntie Marlo -- not a little jealous,
probably, from constantly hearing about the idyllic family unit her brother
and niece were proving to be -- moved back to Minneapolis as well, to join
in the truly noble, richly rewarding task of helping to raise her orphaned
niece.

Dexter and Marlo have committed themselves to making Wren's life as joyous
as they knew how -- not just because of what happened to her, but because
of how deeply both have come to love their sweet, special girl. And if
asked, Wren would say they've both succeeded admirably. She was as happy as
a girl could possibly be after suffering a tragedy no human, let alone a
child of thirteen, ever should.

Wren quickly grew to love her cozy little Prospect Park neighborhood. It
felt story-book perfect to her -- a half-block walk to school, the
light-rail station just a couple blocks further in one direction, an
old-fashioned drug store and a small grocery store only a few blocks the
other way.

More importantly, Prospect Park was home to both an older generation, who
loved their daily walks, as well as a lot of college students renting the
duplexes and fourplexes sprinkled throughout the neighborhood, who always
seemed to be jogging down the street or cycling back and forth to
campus. That meant there was a constant stream of foot traffic on the
hilly, tree-lined sidewalks winding through the Park, giving Wren that
extra sense of security she desperately needed in the aftermath of her
tragedy -- lots of 'eyes on the street' that made her feel safe.

Marlo and Dexter had done their best to protect their niece as she
healed. She was home-schooled for grades seven and eight, because Wren
hadn't yet seemed ready for anything else (her therapist felt the same
way). The home-schooling worked very well. Dexter handled it alone the
first year, then he and Marlo tag-teamed lessons, each teaching Wren what
they felt were their strengths -- music, literature, writing, and art from
Dexter; science and math and history from Marlo. The effort brought the
three of them even closer together.

When it was time to think about high school, Hope Academy seemed perfect,
like a blessing or destiny. Small, close-by, experimental, and -- as a
community charter school -- it even offered Wren the chance to meet other
young people who lived close by (their niece having finally reached the
point where being in the world at last seemed do-able and important for
her). But really, for Dexter, it was all right there in the school's name
-- `Hope' was precisely what his darling niece needed.

Wren was a shy, quiet, worrisomely introverted girl during most of her
freshman year at Hope Academy. She dressed with a singular, almost comedic
fashion sense -- cartoon animal pajama bottoms, work boots, and a boy's
oxford-cloth button-down was one favorite outfit; dance leotards, house
slippers, and one of Dexter's old college sweatshirts another; or maybe a
thrift-store bowling shirt over a pair of boy's thermal underwear bottoms,
with flip-flops. She gave off an abject vibe too pathetic for the other
students to dare tease.

Towards the end of her first year year, though, maybe because she was so
charmingly vulnerable and sweet, she made two close friends -- Lavender
Carpenter, a vixenish beauty with long, thick, lustrous red hair, whose
pale white skin was even whiter than Wren's, and, an even closer
girlfriend, her sister/lover, Njeri Dare, a stunning black girl whose rich,
smooth, cocoa-brown skin, when the girls were naked together (which they
often were), always seemed to have a soft, gorgeous sheen. Every inch of
her darling Jeri was beautiful, Wren thought, from those delicate, perfect
toes she loved sucking, to her huge, densely thick, unkempt-sexy, jet-black
blow-out.

Lavender lived just a block-and-a-half away from Wren, on Clarence, in
another large house, and Njeri lived two blocks away in the other direction
from Wren's house, with her mother and younger brother, in the top half of
a very elegant triplex on Malcolm, just around the bend from No Hope, so
the girls took to hanging out together frequently, at one girl's house or
another's.

As the three of them became really close, the summer after their first year
of high school, Lavender and Njeri introduced Wren to the joys of girl-sex,
at a sleepover party to celebrate their new friendship and the fun summer
ahead they'd be sharing.

At first, Wren had a strong frisson of panic about nudity and touch, but
her two friends, who'd been having sex together for over a year with some
of the other girls they knew at school, made it sheer bliss for Wren right
from that first time. Her friends were so confidently easy, so sensuously
seductive, Wren just floated blissfully into the deep, overwhelming tide of
girl-on-girl intimacy.

She had already begun hours-long bouts of masturbation, soon after coming
to live with Uncle Dexter, whiling away so many hours alone throughout the
day, in her luxuriant bed, fingering herself to sexual fantasies that
featured beautiful fairies and nymphs, or mythical beasts, like dragons and
unicorns, or powerful, ravenous demons.

After that first-time with her gorgeous girlfriends, though, sex became
suddenly communal, wonderfully shared, with two beautiful, supremely sexy
girls who were after the same dreamy joy Wren was.

The two white girls were infatuated with Njeri's body, especially her
breasts -- small and round, like two firm grapefruits, with big,
mouthwatering, dark-chocolate areoles, darker than her cinnamon-brown skin
-- which they greedily double-teamed as they worshipped her during their
naked play together. The three girls had slumber parties every weekend,
alternating houses depending on whose parents would be away longest, where
they explored all the possible ways to pleasure each other.

It was lovely, the three of them together, but Wren loved Njeri best. She
felt closest to her and most aroused by her. Njeri returned her
longing. The two girls became inseparable that summer. They'd snuggle naked
on the couch in Wren's bedroom, listening to records or watching TV, Wren
lying with her head in Njeri's lap, the black girl softly gentling her
friend -- face, neck, shoulders, breasts, tummy, thighs, legs -- getting
the sweet, fragile white girl addicted to sexual touch and pleasure and
longing.

Wren loved when the two of them kissed, naked together in bed, Njeri lying
atop her, sliding her athletic body over hers, rubbing her small, firm
breasts back and forth across Wren's ruby-hard nipples, straddling Wren's
face, then rolling her hips, exciting her sex against Wren's hungry
tongue. Or Wren on her back, sixty-nining, feverishly working her
girlfriend's clit, while Njeri rimmed Wren's ass and fingered her clit.

Wren loved exploring her girlfriend's pussy, ripe and entrancing, enfolded
by the full, luscious lips of the black girl's plump labia.

Things were exciting, of course, but in a different way, when all three
girls got together. It was Lavender who had the best toys and the kinkiest
desires. Wren grew quickly addicted to the pleasures enabled by dildos and
strap-ons and gels and lubes, as well as all the sexy undergarments
Lavender loved, which she'd schooled Njeri in, and which Wren immediately
adored, quickly amassing for herself drawers full of sexy lace bras and
panties, lace-topped stockings, teddies and corsets and bustiers and garter
belts, along with an entire arsenal of dildos.

And it was Lavender who knew all about lesbian porn, along with all those
amazing clips of muscular gay boys. At every party, they'd watch and coo
and kiss and finger themselves and each other, as two or three gorgeous
girls or two or three insanely beautiful boys enacted the cosmic panorama
of same-sex desire.

Their times together were lusciously satisfying and, it turned out,
immensely therapeutic for Wren. She wondered if she would have sexually
healed so quickly without those two. 'The Girl Gang,' they called
themselves (though Lavender lobbied hard for 'The Pussy Posse').

As much as Wren loved getting together with them during the past year,
she'd never join them when they went off to the house-parties given by
their other No Hope girlfriends, parties where there'd be boys. Wren had
still felt terrifyingly unprepared to be anywhere near a boy in a situation
that might become even the teeniest, most harmless bit sexual.

In no way, though, had she minded missing all those boy-girl parties back
then. She loved being alone in the private world of her bedroom. She'd
finger herself to gay and lesbian porn until she game 5 or 6 times, then
she'd chill out in front of a few m/f porn clips.

Wren didn't masturbate to straight porn. Rather, she watched those clips,
even the kinkiest, most hard-core, as if they were wholesome, G-rated,
mainstream Hollywood films -- tender love stories, say, or amusing
rom-coms. To Wren, a thirty-five minute VIXEN or ADULT TIME or BLACKED.COM
clip was classic teen cinema, blissfully innocent popcorn movies, each one
a young girl's dream of a happy ending with the boy next door.

And given her taste in m/f porn, Wren's idea of the `boy next door' was
either a young, handsome, muscular, big-dicked white college boy (younger,
if she could find it, was even better), who ravished gorgeous,
small-breasted, lingerie-clad girls, who were utterly enthralled by the
boy's beauty and power, begging to worship his cock and be mercilessly
fucked; or he was a young, lean-muscled, huge-dicked, ravenously horny,
gorgeous black boy who had a thing for young blonde girls, liked seeing
them in lingerie, in elegant hotels rooms, where they'd romp on the bed all
night, the sweet, slutty young blonde worshipping the coolly beautiful
boy's enormous dark-chocolate dick with the crazed, zealous intensity of a
burning-eyed vestal virgin.

When Wren wasn't masturbating, she played records non-stop and either did
homework or read or drew or watched porn or made videos.

Her taste in reading was formed by what she'd enjoyed growing up, being
read to by her mother -- fairy tales, fantasy, manga, and mysteries. She'd
put a finer edge on that taste the past few years, with all the new
interests she'd developed from being home-schooled by Uncle Dexter -- Greek
mythology, Arthurian legend, lots of British and American poetry
(especially Poe, Sylvia Plath, and the Romantics), and all the eighteenth
and nineteenth and early twentieth century classic novels her uncle had her
read. Over the past summer, on weekly trips to the Prospect Park
Bookmobile, she'd added her own quirky spin -- books on art, French poetry,
and any novels with a queer sensibility, like Proust or Henry James.

The drawings Wren did -- obsessively, filling sketchbook after sketchbook
-- were of the characters who starred in her masturbatory reveries. Fairy
princes and elf-kings, male sprites and fauns, demons and devils, centaurs
and satyrs, pirates and warriors -- all of them handsome and hard-muscled,
naked usually, with outrageously long, ridiculously thick,
succulent-looking cocks.

Along with these spectacular male fantasy heroes, there was a menagerie of
mythical beasts -- like dragons and unicorns and griffins -- all gendered
male, all with huge, slightly exotic variations on a human cock. Very
occasionally, there were lithe, sylph-like, tiny-breasted girls in her
drawings, worshipping the large, powerful, cartoonish cocks of the
masculine creatures she drew, or relishing their captivity by their
gorgeous, brutal, huge-dicked captors.

Wren searched online, on social media and gay porn sites, for pictures of
stunning young boys -- naked, with achingly perfect bodies and big,
incredibly beautiful cocks -- which she'd use as the inspirational models
for her drawings, filling page after page of her sketchbook, copying
hard-muscled torsos, firm asses, and thick, luscious cocks.

Wren had never dared show anyone her sketchbooks. Instead, she'd take them
out regularly, on long weekend afternoons or late-nights, after popping a
couple of gummies. She'd pour a large tumbler of red wine, which she'd sip
on as she pored over page after page of her gloriously beautiful,
fantasy-male erotica, slowly fingering herself to a series of
body-wrenching climaxes, while she let their sex-drenched stories play out
in her mind.

Whenever she felt overwhelmed, Wren could disappear for hours into her
fantasy porn, taking breaks from drawing to watch some gay porn clips, the
kind featuring smooth, young, hard-muscled, big-dicked boys, doing all the
things to each other she wanted to do to both of them.

The sex videos Wren made herself were based on phone camera footage she
took, which she'd edit with a software program, creating small films to
which she'd occasionally add a soundtrack. At first, to learn how to do it,
she practiced with footage she'd take on her phone of Uncle Dexter playing
piano or pruning his roses or raking leaves, or maybe Auntie Marlo cleaning
the living room or trying to bake a pie.

Very soon, though, as she became dazzlingly proficient with editing
software, her video work focused exclusively on recording the part of her
life she most wanted to capture and recreate in film -- erotic studies of
her and Lavender and Njeri, doing what sexy young girls did when they were
all naked, playing together.

The girls all loved camming each other during their girl-play, Wren most of
all. She always asked them to send her copies of all the videos they took
after every night together, then she'd lovingly craft a visual memoir of
their sex-drenched slumber parties, sending the girls copies of the way she
re-shaped the footage they took into gorgeous, beautifully erotic,
professional-looking lesbian porn, which all of them adored.

Wren even thought the videos she took of their girl-fun actually helped
make their sex better, hotter -- as if they were athletes, perfecting their
game by critically studying performance film.

What she liked best about the porn she made, though, was that she was
capturing life as it's most beautifully lived, reality as its erotic
realest, and making it even more spectacular and beautiful than it already
was. Making sex into one of the other best parts of reality, art.

Most of the records Wren played constantly in her room, while reading or
doing homework or art -- as well as the old stereo she played them on --
were Dexter's. She brought that old stereo up from the basement a couple of
weeks after she moved in with her uncle, after she'd discovered it one day
while exploring their large, crammed-full basement.

Dexter perfectly installed his old stereo for her, in that huge old armoire
of her grandmother's Wren loved (adding better speakers). Wren began
borrowing records from her uncle regularly, choosing albums as her
interests led -- helped along, of course, by two years' worth of Dexter's
home-schooled course in music appreciation.

Wren could while away an entire morning or afternoon poring through her
uncle's record collection, which filled most of an entire wall of shelves
in the sunroom. She'd comb over one row of spines after another, pull out
records, read jackets, and sample anything that looked remotely
interesting, playing the LPs right there, on the expensive stereo system
Dexter had in the sunroom. Those records she liked best, she took up to her
room, after first checking her uncle (who was always delighted when his
niece found something she liked in his collection).

And of course there was Ollie Caliber's Used Record Shop in the
neighborhood,which she visited at least twice a week, in search of rich,
new tones for her expanding palette. Ollie's store, located on the main
floor of an old warehouse building on the edge of Prospect Park, just a
three-and-a-half block walk from Wren's house, had a huge, almost
encyclopaedic selection of recorded music and spoken word, and was graced
with the presence of its gorgeous, super-sexy, late-twenty-something owner.

Just as the way her taste in reading was shaped, the music Wren cared most
for was a product of what she heard from her mother growing up, enriched by
Dexter's teaching. So, for example, the folk and pop songs and nursery
rhymes her mother played for her growing up have been augmented with Wren's
more recent discoveries in American folk music -- Joni Mitchell, Tim
Buckley, Neil Young, Laura Nyro, and Paul Westerberg, along with the modern
nursery rhymes of Donovan and classic blues ballads, all of which she'd
discovered online and was able to investigate further in the used bins at
Ollie's.

Uncle Dexter helped broaden her folk/pop music base by teaching her about
classical music for two years, especially choosing composers and pieces he
thought might particularly appeal to his niece (and he was right every
time).

What Wren liked best -- in any style music, vocal or instrumental, high or
low, from any era -- was sad songs. So, most of Tim Buckley, lots of Neil
Young and Joni Mitchell and Laura Nyro, any beautiful blues lament, along
with super-sad Westerberg's things like "Bookmark," "Born For Me," and
"Nothing to No One."

The classical music she liked best included any drippingly mournful solo or
chamber music, like Bach cello, the achingly sad slow movements from
Beethoven sonatas (which she'd combined into a long playlist she still
plays a lot), the Late Quartets of course, a lot of Satie and Ravel, and
almost anything by Schubert, vocal or instrumental. Downbeat orchestral
works, too, like Brahms symphonies and almost any requiem, and most of
Mahler, especially the slow movements of the symphonies and all the lieder
-- especially "Der Abschied," which she could play over and over for hours,
setting her book or sketchbook aside for a second, every thirty minutes or
so, and getting up to set the needle back to the start of the track when it
finished.

Lately, maybe because she's been feeling happier and more connected to the
world than she's been in a long time, Wren has been playing a few records
borrowed from her uncle's vast collection of musical soundtrack albums --
the originl-cast recordings of three Stephen Sondheim musicals (Company,
Sundays in the Park with George, and A Little Night Music), using them as a
way to learn more about her deep, crazy longing for love.

Especially, she wanted to learn about boys. Really learn about them, all
about them (not just what she knew of them from that one time). She was
fascinated by boys, enraptured by boys. She wanted to have sex with every
hot boy at school. She desired cock like a gambling sickness that would
ruin her. And she was finally at the stage where she thought she could
actually be touched by a boy without her screaming and running away or
trying to kill him.

A few weeks into her second year of high school, Wren had emerged almost
fully from her damaged shell. Her clumsy, kooky, willfully oppositional
taste in clothes, thanks to advice and encouragement from her two
girlfriends, evolved into an incredibly sexy, whimsically chosen, daringly
baring fashion sense.

Clothes looked incredible on Wren. She was a startlingly beautiful girl,
about five foot five, with a lithe, slender, waifish body that looked
especially sexy in the slut-poetess style she strived for -- never a bra,
unless she and her girls were doing lingerie dress-up together; any kind of
boy's jacket or vest or motorcycle jacket, nude or with wife-beater
underneath or a loose, faded, concert T for bands boys liked; skirts so
short (either leather or denim or wool) they barely covered the lacy thongs
she wore (when she wore anything) underneath; if she wore a top, either
some sort of tight top that made her almost non-existent breasts incredibly
alluring, or a large loose one that made them somehow even more alluring;
fishnet stockings or leggings or striped knee socks, alone or worn over
tights); and always in one of her many pairs of clunky Doc Martens.

Wren was one of just a handful of white girls attending No Hope, so her
style was singular almost by definition, but she was also one of the most
popular, especially among the clique that interested her most -- the
in-group of gorgeous No Hope black girls who loved getting with girls,
who've made Wren a very welcome, sought-after guest at their weekend
house-parties, as well as their more frequent, impromptu get-togethers in
the girls' bathroom and locker room and showers.

And now Wren was finally ready to experience that part of the world from
which she'd categorically shut herself off. Not quite `categorically,
however, because for the past year, she'd been getting with boys, in her
head, alone at night in her bed, thinking constantly about boys and their
beautiful bodies and cocks and the sex she wanted from them.

Her year-long simmering boy-lust finally overmastered her boy-fear, so she
did what she did, and now she was suddenly, frantically, urgently,
desperately, imperatively, ready to be outrageously sexual with boys.

Especially with her dream boy! Her very own Lord Balthazar! The gorgeous
new blonde boy in the neighborhood, who she summoned to Minneapolis this
summer, to be her boy next door and give her that happy ending she wanted
so bad.

Remy Lord! Her new and evermore Lord and Master, the imperial ruler of her
heart and body and soul! And very very soon -- thank you, Goddess! -- her
helplessly devoted pussy-slave!

"Remy Reemy Creamy Dreamy!"

It was important to keep chanting that, her invocation, in order for the
magic to work.

Wren first saw Remy one day in August, when she was combing through the
bins at Ollie's Record Shop. She'd almost screamed out loud when she first
noticed him that day because just three days prior, she had been so utterly
desperate for a gorgeous boy to be her lover that she had cast a blanket
summoning spell for a boy who looked exactly like her favorite manga-porn
character she drew, Space Lord Balthazar. The resemblence between the boy
who walked into Ollie's that day and Lord Balthazar was uncanny.

When Wren was growing up, her mother, Anne, used to inform her young
daughter all the time about how Mommy was going to put a spell on some man
she'd just met, to make him her lover. She spoke so matter-of-factly, and
always got the results she wanted, that Wren came to realize that her
mother actually was the sex-witch she claimed to be. Without even trying,
Wren had learned all her mother's various spells, mostly just from watching
Anne cast them so often.

Wren had cast her first actual spells earlier this past summer, on Desiree,
a beautiful girl who'd just finished her first year at No Hope, with whom
both Wren and Njeri had fallen into deep, immediate lust. She'd never tried
using her mother's magic before. She'd cast no spells on Njeri, of course,
as the beautiful girl had fallen as much in love with Wren as she had with
Jer. And she hadn't really cared in Lavender's case, the two of them
getting along about as best as Wren cared to.

Wren and Njeri had met Desi at a couple of neighborhood house parties,
early in the summer, in the immedate days after school let out. Desi had
mentioned that she'd never been with girls before, and Njeri and Wren
thought that was simply ridiculous, so Wren explained to an eye-rolling
Njeri how they could take matters into their own hands.

After inviting Desi to a sleep-over with them the following evening, Wren
put a couple of enchantments on the girl before-hand. The ensuing
sleep-over was divine, of course, and Desi has since replaced Lavender,
actually, in the Girl Gang triumvirate. Their sex was so amazing, in fact,
that Wren cast a minor binding spell on the girl the very next night. It's
been dreamy ever since with the gorgeous sweetie.

Njeri's doubts about Wren's abilities remain, though. But that was fine --
Wren doesn't care if anyone believes her, as long as her magic works.

Last month, when Wren simply couldn't stand any more how badly she wanted a
boy, she decided she'd try to summon one to her, like Anne always did, when
she was horny and wanted one of those rough-neck, blue-collar studs she
favored for a one-night stand or a sexy weekend.

For the spell, Wren first needed an image of the person to be summoned, so
she looked through her sketchbooks until she found the fantasy-porn drawing
of hers that most represented her erotic boy-ideal. It was a lovingly
rendered portrait of Lord Balthazar, the utterly beautiful, insanely
muscular, hugely hung leader of Wren's go-to masturbatory fantasy -- the
Star Lords, a group of insouciant, roguish, ravenously sexual, totally hot,
interstellar space-pirates, who loved (especially the cocky Lord Balthazar
did) to happen upon incredibly young, lithe, blonde-haired virgins, and
then deflower them in the most epic-bouts of sensually kinky love-making,
ending each time with the ravished young ruined maiden becoming Balthazar's
utterly smitten, cock-worshipping slut.

Wren carefully ripped the drawing out of her sketchbook, then snuggled into
bed with it and began to fantasize another adventure with Lord Balthazar.

In her sexy scenario, Wren was a young virgin attendant of the Moon Goddess
Selene, who had been bathing her smooth, slender body in a crystaline pool,
when a handsome young rogue interrupted her and began seducing her with
just his eyes and smile alone. Soon he was as naked as she, and just the
sight of his gorgeous muscles and enormous cock was enough to have the
young virgin lying helpless with longing against a moss-covered rock, legs
spread eagerly before him, madly fingering herself.

Their sex was astonishing -- although a rough, presumptious, sex-crazed
brute, Lord Balthzar was such a tender, skilled lover.

Wren stopped masturbating when she came three times.

She hated to have to perform the next part of the spell, because she'd miss
that particular drawing. She must have fingered herself to it a
half-hundred times previously. But she had to have the most perfect
drawing, the most perfect fetish, to use in the spell, if she wanted the
most perfect boy. So she set fire to the sketch, holding it, while the
beautiful rendering immolated, over a silver bowl she kept on her dresser.

When the drawing had completely burned, she finished the ritual. She made a
paste from as much pussy juice as she could finger out, as well as a few
drops of her blood from a finger-prick, mixing her body-fluids in with the
ashes of the burnt representation of the beloved until it was a charcoal
paste. She smeared the paste all over her pussy and left it on overnight.

Miraculously, right on schedule, three days later, there he was! Her
summoned boy! The spitting image of the dreamy young Lord Balthazar,
strolling right into Ollie's Used Record Store, right while Wren was
searching through the `Brahms -- Chamber' bin! Wren almost cried out and
fainted at the same time.

Thank you, Mommy, for teaching me so well! Thank you, Darling Dearest,
Eternally Beloved, Ever-Watchful Anne! And thanks to you, O Wise and Loving
Hecate!

After Wren calmed herself down, with about twenty centering breaths, she
edged shyly over to the `Jazz' section, which was near the `New Release'
bins, where her summoned boy had started browsing. Wren hovered
inconspicuously, not even noticing the LPs she mindlessly flipped through,
her eyes glued to her boy.

She was dumb-struck by the blindingly gorgeous, perfectly built, blonde
muscle-god in front of her, his young body adorned that day in a pair of
baggy khaki shorts and a skimpy, way-too-small wife-beater. Wren gazed
dreamily at the boy's ripe, defined musculature, lusciously revealed under
that sleeveless T, tight and translucently thin, blazoning the kind of
breathtakingly defined, perfectly sculpted muscle Wren had only ever seen
before in the choicest gay porn videos.

She let her gaze trail down. The way the boy held his lower body -- the
jaunty angle of the hips, the pert cock of his ass -- it seemed to resonate
a coiled strength and power, like he could fuck a girl all night and make
her pussy ooze non-stop.

His hips weren't so much clothed as they were draped, like the statues of
gorgeous young athletes in classical sculpture. The loose, faded khaki
shorts he wore hung impossibly low and sexy off his hips, proudly flaunting
-- because it was wonderfully obvious he wasn't wearing underwear -- a
long, thick snake of a cock in front, and a perfectly shaped muscle-butt in
back, accentuated even more breathtakingly when the faded khaki caught
between his ass cheeks.

Wren couldn't take her eyes from the boy the whole time he was in the
store. As she ogled him, her lust made her tremble. She savored the feeling
of her thick, warm wetness seeping in her, her mind a whirl of fantasies of
what they'd soon be doing together.

She grew even further enflamed when she saw how shamelessly the gorgeous
boy flirted with Ollie, the handsome heart-throb owner -- who'd always
given off a 'seriously into boys' vibe to Wren, despite his having a
gorgeous young black wife and two adorable kids who often hung out at the
store with him.

The eye-popping m/m cruising scene that played out in front of her only
made her new crush that much more desirable to her. Wren hadn't
specifically summoned a gay boy when she cast her spell, but as soon as she
saw her boy flirt with Ollie, she realized that, of course, given all the
gay porn she'd watched, alone and with the Girl Gang, a gay boy was her
dream-lover. Hands down.

Especially a gay boy with such an insanely perfect body, who would lust
after her exactly as he did another boy. She ached with a need for the kind
of sex she saw in gay porn. All that luscious cock worship and ass-play!
She wanted to worship the cock of the hot boy she'd summoned with the same
desperate thirst the boys in gay porn did -- which was way hotter than most
girls in m/f porn did. A hot boy who would worship her body with the same
raw, insane, spit-sloppy fervor he worshipped another hot boy's.

And now, that boy, and that sex, was hers! She'd summoned it!

Wren bounced around the store that day, thrumming with euphoria, following
her boy around the aisles like a puppy.

At one point, after praying to the Goddess and the Spirit of Anne, her
heart poundng in her chest, she grew bold enough to flirt with her future
life-mate. It was delicious! They talked about records -- Joni Mitchell
albums, especially. His voice, his sweet voice! Pure and clear, sending
shivers of soft lust through her. And the way his handsome face just stayed
so beautiful when he spoke!

Wren had to stop flirting, though, because she felt like she might faint --
and she worried that losing control like that might break the spell. She
edged further back in the store, back to the `B'Way -- Orig Cast' bin, and
watched as her boy and Ollie cruised each other, each boy so obviously
smitten.

Her boy complimeted Ollie's sexy new haircut. Ollie smiled and rubbed his
own hand over her boy's buzzed blonde head (Wren wanted to do that so
bad!), telling him how hot it looked. Oh God, it was sexy to see the two of
them together!

They'd all be having a threesome some day, Wren realized excitedly! She
could worship both their cocks! Her boy could eat her pussy, while Ollie
ate her ass! She could hardly wait!

At one point, though, her rational mind kicked in, vexing her. She might,
indeed, have her catch on the line now, but she still had to fully reel him
in, making him hers for life, and she wouldn't be able to do that, she
remembered, until she could bind him fully to her. And she couldn't bind
him until she had some of his actual essence -- sweat, saliva, semen,
urine, or blood.

She kept her eyes seriously trained now, spying extra-carefully, watching
to see if her boy cut himself or left some sweaty residue on one of the
records he'd looked at, but no luck.

No problem, though, she'd get what she needed in due time. Maybe after a
couple of enchanting spells, she figured. At the thought of enchantments,
she fished her phone from her tote. For the rest of her time at Ollie's
that day, she used her phone to take probably a hundred secret photos of
her boy -- mostly of him alone, but a lot of him flirting with the sexy
young store owner.

As soon as Wren got back to her bedroom that afternoon, she stripped off
her clothes, grabbed her phone, and jumped into her quilt-laden bed. She
began fingering herself as she scrolled through the photos she'd taken of
her young god. It took her seven climaxes before she could decide on which
picture was just a smidgen sexier than all the others. When she finally
determined it, she printed it out, smeared it with pussy juice, and used it
to cast the first of her enchanting spells on her soon-to-be lover.

A week before school started, coming home from a long bike ride she'd taken
down along the river, as she was pumping up that small hilly stretch of
Orlin Avenue in front of her high school, on the way up to her house, some
movement off to the side caught her eye.

In just a mere flicker of a side-glance -- but enough to catch the
unmistable curve of hard, ripe, muscular, young flesh -- Wren could sense
total boy-beauty perfection. She slowed her pedaling down to get as long a
look as she could. There was a bare-chested -- and after a few
nano-seconds, she realized -- bare-naked boy, out getting sun on a small,
upper porch, flaunting his nude, beautifully worked body, his cock and ass
obscured by porch rail.

She realized almost instantly, from all that overwhelming muscle and that
sexy-buzzed blonde hair, it was the boy from the record store! The boy
she'd summoned! The boy who was already starting to fall in love with her
and didn't even know it! Her life-mate!

So that was where he lived! In the house next to the church, where the
Pastor used to live! Right across from No Hope! And just a measly
half-block down the street from her house!

Wren gulped out a few giggles. Her first-time summoning spell, and it had
landed her boy practically at her front door! Her mother had known the best
damn spells!

As she slowly pedaled past, Wren gazed up worshipfully at the young god,
sprawled out naked on his porch, his gleaming-hard torso catching perfect
afternoon light, looking like he was a young, perfect-muscled boy, posing
in Michelangelo's sky-lit studio.

Lord Balthazar! My Lord, it's you! And you're dressed, as usual, for
ravishing maidens!

Wren biked on, dithering over what to do. As soon as she reached her home,
pedaling up the side driveway, she thought about hopping off her bike and
running upstairs to cast another enchantment spell. Instead, she turned her
bike right around in front of the garage and coasted back down the
driveway.

If she had the nerve, she thought, she could just bike back over there,
explain how she'd summoned him, and why, and then suggest they have
immediate sex.

She stilled her mind, quieting her raw, embarrassing hunger. At least,
though, she should ride back past the boy's house, because she had to have
another look. But the boy had gone in by the time she'd biked back to his
house.

For the next few weeks, until school started, Wren cast enchantment spells
daily over her boy. She would lie in her bed for at least an hour, both
morning and night, scrolling through the photos of him she took in Ollie's,
fingering herself to luscious daydreams of him.

Sometimes she'd imagine him as a lusty young fairy prince, with a long,
thick, uncut beauty of a cock, choosing her from all the other naked nymphs
at the pool, sprinkling magical herbs on her lips and eyes, then flying her
off to be the new sex-slave in his enchanted garden.

Or she'd see him as a red-skinned, hard-muscled, super-powerful sex-demon,
with sexy curving horns and a huge pierced dick, and a tail he used as a
second cock. He'd kidnap her from her bedroom, like Dracula, and spirit her
away to his fiery-hot sex-hell, where he used all his dark erotic arts,
during long hours of exquisite torment, while Wren screamed herself hoarse
from the pleasure of his ravishment, one long, endless, body-exhausting
climax, making her cum and cum and cum.

Her young god became, in those weeks before school started, the go-to model
she used for all her fantasy-based pornographic drawings -- the template
for her gods and demons and sexy sprites and centaurs, as well as her
half-boy/half-beast sex-creatures, her naked, huge-hung lion-boys and
mer-boys and were-boys and her monster-cock dragon-boys.

But the most obsessive j/o fantasy that ran through her mind during that
week before school started, as she fingered herself, night and day and
afternoon, looked more like documentary footage than cartoon manga-porn --
it wasn't even so much `fantasy' as it was a reality-TV show of her life,
except if her life erupted into a porn film.

The fantasy always took place at No Hope, and it always starred her and her
boy, who would be a student there. The two of them would meet in some
cool/funny/sexy way and have insanely hot, athletically hard sex by the end
of third-hour, right there, in the halls at school, on the quarry-tiled
floors, and fall madly in love.

They'd spend the early part of the school-day flirting with each other
constantly, everywhere -- in class, the lunchroom, the science lab. Just
some super-sexy flirting for a while, eyes and smiles, quickly turning into
touches, then her flashing tits and ass and him flashing abs and dick.

They'd become so excited by each other, they'd have to sneak off to suck
and fuck in the girls' john or the boys' locker room.

After school, he'd take her across the street, up to his bedroom. They'd be
stripping off the last of each other's clothes as he pulled them both down
onto his bed. She'd start doing all sorts of sexy things to him, getting
his huge, gorgeous cock achingly hard.

Then they'd have outrageously wonderful sex, then he'd start to plead with
her desperately, telling her they had to be boyfriend and girlfriend and
have incredible sex constantly, at all hours of the day, every day, from
then on. They would get married after junior year and fuck and fuck, all
the time, their two beautiful bodies always naked and sexy together around
the house. They'd have a baby by summer, fucking all the time, right up
until the morning when their beautifu baby boy was born.

She let that masturbatory fantasy play itself constantly, lusciously,
through her mind and fingers and tits and mouth and pussy for hours, lying
alone in bed.

Unfortunately, her fantasy was just that -- impossibly unreal.

She knew the reality was that the beautiful young blonde god she'd summoned
wasn't going to be a student at her school, because there were only about
ten white boys in the entire school, all four grades, if that.

The things that really tore it for her -- that convinced her there was no
hope of her life-mate attending No Hope -- was when she saw him about five
days before school started, going on a run through the
neighborhood. Totally bare-chested and absolutely gorgeous! He looked like
a total All-American super-jock -- the captain of the football team,
probably, or the cool 'lone wolf' track star. He looked Olympian fit.

And a miniscue charter school like No Hope didn't have sports teams. He was
probably attending one of the select Minneapolis prep, or large public high
schools, one with a big-time sports program, whose sports teams are always
in the state championship finals, and whose star athletes get recruited by
powerhouse colleges.

Wren began noticing her boy out running in the neighborhood every day after
that, doubtless doing his elite sports-team training. She'd spot him
running in the street, right past her house. He ran past her once when she
was out for a walk. And once driving in the car with her uncle, she noticed
Remy at a stop-light, running in place, waiting to cross Franklin.

He always wore just the skimpiest pair of shorts to run in, so his smooth,
gleaming, beautifully luscious muscles were on dazzling display each time
she saw him.

After every sighting of her athletic young god that week, Wren went
straight to her room, to lie on her bed and masturbate, thrashing about
amid the bedclothes, her ecstasy wrestling with her agony. His certain
jock-status rubbed itself further and further into her with each viewing of
his young-superstar physique, while he was out doing his fitness
training. She bet he lettered in at least two sports.

Her summoning spell had worked, but she could see it apparently had a major
glitch to it, namely how to actually get together with the boy
summoned. Anne never seemed to have that problem -- she summoned, they
fucked. Wren had gotten some part of the spell wrong, somehow. The thought
of her and her obsession not becoming actual life-partner lovers was simply
intolerable.

A little frightened, she took matters in hand. Fuck it, she would just cast
a binding spell. Even though she still had no blood or semen, nothing with
his actual essence (not even nail parings, which Anne claimed sometimes
worked).

As Wren struggled to see a possible way to finesse that essential
requirement, she hit on something. She searched on her phone through her
recent photos of her boy, the ones she was quick enough to take when she
saw her dream-boy out jogging.

She found one she thought might work -- Young Balthazar, right after
finishing a run, cooling down, standing in front of No Hope, stretching,
his muscular body gleaming, looking like he should be an underwear model.

She chose it because there was all that sweat in the photo! Lots of it!
Insanely sexy!

That had to count for something! It might sort-of kind of bind him, at
least until she could get actual essence.

Wren tongued the boy's sweaty body on her phone screen before she printed
the picture, he looked that gorgeous.

She took the printed photo to her desk and took out a small bottle of
silver paint. Taking a thick brush from the jar of markers and pencils and
pens and brushes on her desk, she painted a silver border around the
printed photo.

Then, reaching into her tote bag, she took out the talisman her mother gave
her, right after her daughter had her first period, when she'd first taught
Wren some spells -- the silver dollar her mother had enchanted for her with
cold spirit-flame.

Wren lit a candle in her room, set the silver-edged photo of her boy next
to her in bed, and, clutching the coin-fetish in her palm, lay back and
began fantasizing, flooding her head for the next hour with dreamy images
of her and the boy, walking to her house together after school, their hands
and lips all over each other, after a day spent kissing and making out in
the halls and lunch room at school. She'd lead him up to her bedroom, where
they stayed naked and sexy all afternoon, ravishing each other again and
again.

Sometimes in her fantasy, Wren would dominate him, almost to the point of
torture, watching his cock spurt load after thick load. Other times, he'd
be in control, having his raw, hungry way with her thin, naked beauty,
using his strong hands and cruel mouth and snake-like tongue and huge,
steel-hard hardness to ravage every inch of her, making the juices gush out
of her cunt non-stop as he worked her over.

Wren rubbed her clit continuously with her silver charm, until she came the
required nine times, as she imagined those rapturous scenes -- their young,
naked, perfect bodies writhing and tumbling and licking and sucking and
climaxing.  Then she took the photo next to her and rubbed her cunt
thoroughly with it, smearing it with her juices (she was positively
dripping!).

Was she imagining the tingle that suddenly spread through her? She didn't
think so. She began chanting, in her soft voice, the words of the binding
spell her mother had taught her.

"Thou art mine now! Wholly and completely, body and mind, heart and
soul. Forever mine, mine alone. By Hecate, this is just, and I will it!
Thou art mine!"

She closed her eyes tightly and sunk into her pillow, as visions flooded
her mind, of her glorious future with her beautiful boy. When her head
cleared, she prayed to her mother and the Goddess to make the magic work.

Still, she was absolutely dumb-founded when she'd walked into English class
this morning and saw him there, her Blonde Osiris, her sex-dream
brother-lover! Just as it had stunned her when he'd walked right through
the door of Ollie's used record store.

This time, there he was just sitting there, right in front of her! She
realized her half-assed, cobbled-together binding spell must have
worked. He was bound to her now! It was so wonderfully spooky and crazy!
She felt like a character out of a TWILIGHT ZONE episode! She wondered if
Anne -- or any girl -- felt this excitement the first time a major spell
worked for them.

So here they were, students together at No Hope.

Wren craved actual sex with him constantly now, desperately, all day since
first seeing him at the start of English class, harder and more intensely
than her masturbatory fantasies of the past week, with a force and a need
that frightened her. Even though she'd never actually been romantically
intimate with a boy before.

She'd fortunately gotten her wits back by the end of Anna Beam's class,
when she'd immediately bolted for the girls' third floor bathroom, to cast
a quick, but powerful suggestion spell, one that would further enchant Remy
by channeling all her lust-thoughts into him, getting him totally horny for
her.

It was one of the spells she used on Desi over the summer, allowing Wren to
fill the girl's mind with all kinds of sublime Sapphic fantasies featuring
Desi and Wren and Njeri. It had worked brilliantly.

She felt she needed that same power over Remy, immediately, because she
didn't want anything to possibly go wrong, now that she'd come this far.

She'd cast it in one of the bathroom stalls. All she'd needed was her
silver-dollar charm, some of her pussy juice, and the spell. Her charm was
in the small coin purse in her big tote bag, and her pussy was soaking wet
from being close to Remy for the past hour in English class, hearing him,
dreaming of him, gazing at him, and smelling his sublime scent!

All that remained was to softly intone the words of the suggestions spell.

"My thoughts are thine, thy thoughts mine!"

With her talisman charmed, she'd activated the spell by rubbing the silver
dollar quickly across her beautiful boy's fingers after math class.

She was certain she could see her magic play itself out the rest of the
school-day. Even though he never once just flat-out took her, right there,
in school, pulling her down to the floor, kissing and fondling her, and
ripping each other's clothes off -- which was what she'd desperately
craved, what she kept begging him to do all day -- the lust in her boy's
eyes for her, when they were together, was delicious!

And even though No Hope is such a small charter school, Wren was convinced
it was one of the effects of her maybe-not-so-half-assed binding spell that
she and Remy have every class together. He's the only other person who's
ever been in every single one of her classes with her before!

Remy was wearing a jockstrap today, she saw (his sagging basketball shorts
showed off his sexy underwear waistband all day!), which prevented her
seeing if the erotic fantasies she was sending him were making him
hard. She just felt certain, though, he was totally in tune with her most
carnal desires.

She wished she could have just turned to him at some point, right out of
the blue, and asked him to describe to her how much he wanted to fuck
her. She bet she could have cum without touching herself, just from hearing
him babble and stammer his hard-core porn-fantasies of her!

She'd even increased the spell's force, in Chemistry class -- when she'd
'accidentally' dropped the coin and willed him to pick it up, getting him
to actually touch her charm, let it play over his fingers, so the soul-fire
in it could enter him -- because Remy was starting to talk more coherently,
less lust-addled, and that worried her. No way she would take any
half-measures from now on.

She fingered herself that night, after her homework, to fantasy after
fantasy starring her young blonde god. Each one was absolutely amazing,
perfectly luscious. He WAS the one. She knew it, without a trace of
doubt. And she had him, bound to her now -- that was obvious, too.

She thought again how awesome it was that her boy was so obviously gay, and
she was so definitely a lesbian. It made their romance sort of pure, she
thought, sort of perfect.

And now she knew his name! Remy Lord! Her very own Star Lord!

"Remy Reemy Creamy Dreamy!"

She'd chanted her incantation over and over, under her breath, on and off
all evening, trying to fully enchant her boy as quickly as possible. She
was desperate to move beyond just passion and possession, to actual
consummation. She was feeling faint with need for their sex to start.

Her suggestion spell would do it, she was convinced. She just had to keep
channeling as much of her overwhelming lust into him, as often she
could. It worked with Ray-Ray, and she was sure it would work with Remy!

Soon! Soon her gorgeous Lord will be her slave! And she can serve him and
dominate him and bear their child and enjoy pleasures untold together!

For a long time after she'd lost her mother, Wren continued to feel a
tangible, lived closeness to Anne -- as if her mom was still there, just
hanging back, maybe, but always hovering, always within earshot.

Having Anne still with her that way, in spirit, meant Wren could carry on
an internal dialogue with her mom, telling her all about her feelings, her
fears, how hard life was for her now, now that her physical mother was
gone, especially gone in such an awful way. Wren used to break down
constantly, sobbing to Anne how frightened she was, all the time,
dangerously afraid.

They'd talk a lot about everyday stuff, too, chatting together like two
gabby girlfriends. She'd describe in detail Dexter's awful cooking, but
then add that her uncle was trying to get better, to learn how to make
dishes a thirteen-year-old girl would like. Wren described to Anne all the
things she was being taught by Dexter and Marlo in her home-schooling. She
and her mother could ramble on for hours about clothes and books and music
and her drawing -- the things that were mainly her life.

The Damson House itself provided a rich source of conversation for two of
them, since Wren knew that Anne, having grown up there, knew the house
intimately. Wren chronicled for her mother, those first few months after
she'd moved there, all the changes she and Dexter were making in her
bedroom, because her mother knew the room so well (it had been Anne's
mother's room, after all). Wren and Anne would have lively back-and-forth
chats about what color to paint the room, now that it was hers, and how
many fairy lights to string, and which new sheets to order, and what art
would look good on the walls.

The past half-year or so, though, she rarely chatted with her mother like
that any more. And ninety percent of the rare times she did, it was always
just a quick, urgent plea for help.

"Help me on this test today, Mom! Please please please!"

"Help me feel more confident around Lavender and Njeri tonight, Mom! Help
me be the way you used to be -- so cool and elegant all the time! Please!"

"Let Dexter and Marlo know how much I love them, Mother. OK? Please? You
know them both so well! Tell me what I should say to them so they'll know!
Please, Mom! It feels so important to me!"

"Help me not feel so sad all the time, Mom! It's really starting to bother
me! I don't want my friends to think I'm weird. I want to be fun and
light-hearted and sexy, so they'll like me! Please, Mom! Please!"

So it was no surprise that when Wren went to bed that night, the evening of
the first day of school, she turned to her mother for help with this most
important request ever. She pleaded, out loud, in the empty silence of the
otherwise sleeping Damson House, as loudly as she could, in her soft,
almost inaudible whisper, wracked by desperate, unstoppable tears.

"Oh, Momma! Momma, he's perfect! He's all I'll ever want! All I'll ever
need. I swear, Mommy! Please! Please? I'll never ask you for help again
after this, ever, I promise! Because I won't need it! I'll have Remy! I'll
have the most utterly perfect life imaginable. With the most utterly
perfect, beautifully wonderful boy ever. Please, Mother! Please, Anne! It
worked out so horribly wrong with you, Mommy, I know. But let it work out
wonderful for your daughter! Please please please! Help me, Mother, I beg
of you, with this one last, final, supremely crucial thing!"

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