Summoned Lust - Mistress_ Red (most inspirational books of all time .TXT) 📗

this book and story does not belong to me

Meg O'Donnell was once the picture of sweetness and innocence. However, working in the cut-throat fashion industry for ten years does tend to tarnish one's halo a bit. Besides which, she came from a long line of witches. Surprisingly enough, the actual knack for witchery seems to be, to some extent, genetic, and in Meg's case actually skipped generations for the past several centuries.

But never was that talent evident in the men of her ancestry. Only the women had the gift, and only every other generation at that. Her mother and great-grandmother seemed to have neither the inclination nor the talent to cast spells, invoke spirits or even read fortunes. It was just never in them.

Her grandmother and great-great-grandmother, however, were proficient in the arts. Her great-great grandmother, Mary Boyne, even created her own coven, the members of which practiced the arts for decades under Mary's leadership until she took ill in her mid-eighties. It was only that illness which forced Mary to leave her beloved coven.

Had she remained healthy, she'd have never left her friends and co-worshippers. She loved her dabblings in the arcane arts that much.

Meg's grandmother, Caitlin Murphy, was yet another follower of those beliefs, even more powerful than her own grandmother had been. She often pored over ancient tomes, searching for new discoveries and more ways to assure her family's happiness and prosperity. She rarely cast spells of black magic, but would not hesitate to do so if circumstances called for it.

If her family was threatened in any way, the then matriarch would throw caution to the wind to protect those she loved. Thus, only rarely did she invoke dark forces, but most certainly did so without hesitation when she felt her family's well-being was in some sort of jeopardy. She, too, led a coven for decades.

And when the time came, Caitlin - sensing her daughter's disinterest in such things, and feeling the power seething just beneath Meg's innocent exterior - began teaching her granddaughter all that she'd learned in her many long years as a witch. And little Meg was a quick study; she soaked up the arcane arts like a mystical sponge.

When Meg's grandmother passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-seven, she bequeathed to her granddaughter all her books and scrolls and potions - which Meg's mother would've objected to had she believed in them and known of their true power. Meg missed her grandma dearly, but accepted the dozens of mystical gifts with her heart full of awe and wonder.

Over the years, she read the books and scrolls, dabbled with the potions and spells, all the while remembering her grandmother's warnings and urgings for caution. Meg learned all that she could, eager to explore this strange new world... eager to make her grandmother proud.

Now approaching her third decade of life, the twenty-eight year old Megan O'Donnell was nearly as well-versed in the arts as her grandmother was at her age. And, in keeping with a seeming trend from generation to generation, Meg was at least as powerful as her mentor, and in many ways much more powerful.

But, alas, her choices of career and friendships and lovers had conspired to sour her on several aspects of life. Her years in the fashion field had indeed been cut-throat, and her most recent lover had secretly been laying his pipe in the loins of her supposedly best friend at work.

She could've dealt with the pressures at her job, but the dual treachery from ex-friend and ex-lover was more than she could bear. Despite her grandmother's leanings toward discretion and caution, Meg's feelings of betrayal led her down a path that there would be no turning back from once she'd begun. Still seething with bitterness, she embarked on a journey that would have very surprising repercussions.

This story takes place a few months after Meg's discovery of her lover, Rob, and her best friend, Terry, entwined in steamy embrace upon her own bed, naked and heaving against one another like mindless animals in heat. It was the age-old story of lust and deceit.

Almost as if playing out some badly written script, she arrived home unexpectedly one otherwise pleasant afternoon and opened her bedroom door to see their sweaty, rutting bodies pasted together in lust, and had nearly fainted from the shock and disbelief.

And to make matters even more unbelievable, they - those salivating, groping, sweating fornicators - had the temerity to glare at HER as if SHE was the one who was guilty of some offence... presumably that of having had the AUDACITY to interrupt their illicit coupling! The gall of those cheating bastards! How could she not have seen it in them all along? How could she be THAT blind?

After recovering from her near-collapse, Meg had screamed and ranted and threatened, but in the end could do nothing but throw them both out of her apartment... and out of her heart. Her once gallant lover and her no longer trusted friend simply fixed upon her a stare of utter contempt as they got dressed and left the building... probably to continue their brainless humping at their earliest possible convenience.

It took Meg days to get over that initial shock, and the deep feelings of betrayal. She'd lost both a lover and a best friend in one brief instant of time. It hurt - deeply. Only by diverting her mind to the dark arts could she ease that pain. Her magic gave her strength; it's dependable power gave her solace.

Her grandmother's use of the arts to protect her family gave her hope, inspiration. And it gave her focus. Slowly, the pain was pushed back, replaced by her mind's workings on a course of action. "Let her have that pencil-dick," she thought, "They deserve each other." She grinned, her eyes sparkled... and she mapped out her plan. Twisted, yes... but it gave her such joy just to consider the delicious possibilities.

Almost three months to the day from the shocking spectacle of hormones raging out of control on her very own bed, Meg was ready for her seventh conjuring. This would be the best yet. She'd researched her grandmother's dusty old books for yet another candidate, a demon she could depend on, a demon who would do exactly what she wanted done.

Her first summoning conjured a demon who had - under her direct orders - raped both her ex-lover and her ex-best friend, fucking them both repeatedly, and forcing them BOTH to blow him several times (Meg giggled at the mere thought of how embarrassing it must've been for the macho Rob to have demon penis erupting in his mouth in front of his skanky whore).

This resulted in both of them acquiring simply exquisite cases of genital herpes and clap..and some wonderfully irritating hemorrhoids for her ex-stud, which had him clenching his cheeks tightly almost 24/7 from that night on. Oh, how absolutely precious! And, the icing on this vengeful cake was that when they'd actually been stupid enough to try reporting to the authorities that they'd been accosted by a demon, they very nearly ended up being committed.

It was touch and go there for a few days until they recanted their true but unbelievable story. Meg had laughed hysterically when the demon reported back to her every detail of what he'd done to them. It was the first time she'd ever been proud of a demon. Oh, what perverse joy!

The second demon was even more fun, though not as far as Rob and Terry had been concerned. This second awful brute had again visited the now diseased couple at Meg's bidding, this time doing much more perverse things to them. Suffice it to say that it involved both of them being held captive, bound tightly together in their bathtub naked for hours... and copious amounts of the foulest of demonic bodily wastes.

Well, at least they were in the bathtub, where they could clean up afterwards! Meg had howled for a week over that one. Lying in bed alone at night, she'd picture the entire disgusting scenario and laugh until she snorted. And this time, she noted, Rob and Terry had had the good sense not to involve the police.

They'd have been put away for sure! That entire escapade had given Meg so much joy that she'd written down the demon's name for possible future use. Before sending him back home to the deep, dark depths of Hell, he'd agreed to "anoint" the treacherous duo anytime Meg called on him. A more amicable and cooperative fellow she could not have asked for, if a tad disgusting.

But that seemed ages ago. She'd enlisted the aid of four other demons since. Now she was on her seventh demonic summoning. She grinned widely at her expectations of how the evening might go. She couldn't wait to get started. All was in readiness. She experienced delicious tinglings as the time drew near. She was eager to begin.

As with her previous dabblings in demon conjuration, Meg moved all her bedroom furniture to the four walls. In the now open center of the room she drew a circle - exactly thirteen feet in diameter - with enchanted chalk that she'd spoken several mystical spells of power and protection over.

Inside the circle, the inverted pentagram, the doorway to chaos - access to Hell and all its despicable minions - was carefully drawn. After all was completed, she again chanted a spell of protection over the entire area. At each of the five tips of the pentagram she then lit and placed one candle, again speaking the spell of protection over each one individually. This latest demon was a particularly powerful one, and she was taking no chances.

She walked over to her bedside table, which had been placed gainst the far wall next to her bed, which was pushed into the corner. On that table was a large, brittle-paged book, the binding of which crackled dryly as she opened it. She flipped the dusty pages until she came to the page she wanted.

She read it several times to be sure it was exactly what she was looking for. Yes, this demon was perfect. Smiling, she licked her lips and made her final decision. Nodding to herself, her grin widened and she chuckled with anticipation. It was time. Everything was ready. Demon number seven, come on down! Meg lit two more candles, placing one on either side of the book of spells and incantations. She didn't bother to turn off the lights.

She knew they'd go out on their own when her "guest" arrived. It was one of the ways - along with that oh so distinctive sulfurous odor - that she knew of both a demon's arrival and his departure. So, not turning off the lights was something that was helpful in discerning the beginning and the end of a summoning session.

Especially so the end of a session. It told her that a demon had been properly and securely banished back to his dark domain.