Creation Mage 6 by Dante King (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📗

rattled than one of Banksy’s spray cans, what with getting busted having just pleasured me with one of the all-time great titty-fucks, but the older woman simply shrugged, pulled her robe closed, and wiped a fleck of spunk from the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

“I was just giving Justin here a more extensive tour,” she said innocently, tightening the cord that held her bathrobe closed. “He was also gracious enough to help apply my fairy-dust lotion, for which I had to give him a reward. Which reminds me dear, you really must borrow some. You can never start defying gravity and time too soon.”

Leah cupped her own breasts, which were concealed under her baggy orange robe.

“Thanks for the offer Aunt Ruth,” she said, “but I’m not as well-endowed as you are.”

“But you’re perfect nonetheless,” the older woman said.

“Your aunt is one hell of a tour guide,” I managed to crowbar into this escalating beauty regime talk, tucking my johnson away.

“Oh, I bet she is, I bet she is. This woman had quite the reputation back in her day. And it would appear that her day isn’t over yet, eh, Aunt Ruth?” teased Leah.

“A Chaosbane woman has got to get her kicks, deary,” she said to Leah. “You know that better than anyone.”

Leah gave me an openly lascivious look. “Boy, do I, Aunt Ruth,” she said. “I’ll tell you what, you won’t find much bigger, stronger and vigorous kicks than our friend here.”

“Unfortunately, time did not allow us a more comprehensive testing…” Aunt Ruth said.

I did my best impression of a landed fish, looking from one woman to the other.

Aunt Ruth and Leah exchanged glances, and then burst into laughter.

“Bless him, he’s a fine man this one,” Aunt Ruth said, “but perhaps not used to our open-minded ways, even now. Even after being a Creation Mage this long.”

“Aunt Ruth, shhh,” Leah said in a theatrical whisper, “that’s a secret.”

“Not much of a Creation Mage just at the moment anyway,” I said. “I, uh, tapped myself out a little in that department.”

“Justin, Justin, Justin, I’m sure that I could still find a use for you,” Aunt Ruth said. “Leah dear, are the others on their way back?”

Leah nodded. “I ran ahead. Couldn’t make it too easy for you. Besides, you’d wear him out, and I might want to play with him later.”

Being talked about like I was a piece of meat should have annoyed me, maybe. The reality was I found this chat extremely hot.

“I get the impression that Mr. Mauler here has enough vim to handle both you and I back-to-back, should it ever be called for…” Aunt Ruth said.

Leah smiled broadly and kissed the other woman on the cheek as she walked slowly from the room. “The ‘less’ is silent,” she quipped as Aunt Ruth paused in the doorway.

“Oh, please, dear, there was nothing ruthless about it.”

Aunt Ruth turned back to me and blew me a kiss.

“But there might be yet, Mr. Mauler, hm?” she said with a wink.

Chapter 8

There were two days to go until Yuletide Eve. Two days to go until the big night.

To no one’s surprise, and to Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock obvious delight, Mort had popped the most Eggnog Gnomes out of everyone during the hunting trip. Apparently, despite heading back to the house before the final hunting ground, I had come in second, missing out on the coveted honor of carving the Yuletide Log by a matter of thirteen gnomes.

After falling victim to Aunt Ruth’s seductions, the rest of the day was fairly mellow and, surprisingly, followed a pattern of how normal people celebrated their festive holidays. Eating and drinking far too much throughout the day. Sitting around the fire and swapping stories and anecdotes.

A bunch of us were strolling around the property to walk off a delectable meal capped off with a treacle tart that would have left Nigella Lawson weak at knees and probably quite moist in the panties department. This pleasant afternoon walk was interrupted by an impromptu snowball fight. It was a short and vigorous affair. The snowball fight culminated in a spectacular display of projectile vomiting from Igor when Leah struck him square in the plums with a snowball that was at least eighty percent ice.

We all made our way back inside for fortifying cups of hot cider simmering inside a cauldron over the main hearth’s crackling fire. After that, the rest of the afternoon and evening were taken up with the customary family board game battle. The game of choice was a familiar-looking one called Gentrification Station; a game which involved players racing to buy up as much cheap land and real estate as they could, and then knock out the other players by driving up rents so that they were bled dry and couldn’t afford any properties for themselves.

It was a game that, apparently, never ended up reaching the final round. And a new set was purchased every year. It became evident why when, after being pitilessly knocked out by Aunt Ruth (the ‘less’ is silent), Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock picked up the game and threw it into the fire with savage glee.

After another gut-busting dinner, I was standing on the front porch and pulling on my boots. Despite the unguent Aunt Ruth had given me, I felt that my lacerated ass could use an early night. I was full of excellent food and fantastic drink and was ready to hit the hay in my cozy guest tent on the edge of the wood.

“There you are, honeypot,” Leah said from behind me.

I turned and saw her leaning casually against the jamb of the large, open front door. Her feet, which stuck out of the bottom of her high-waisted pants, were bare, despite the cold.

“Here I am,” I said, slipping my second boot on. “What