The witching hour

By Voodoo Dreams
published August 22, 2018
Summary

It started with the little things, what I’d steal: first his clothes, then his toothbrush, then his will - but before all that, just glances. The way his leather biker chaps creak over his cheeks as he bends into the fridge is still my favorite.

Constructive criticism and suggestions are always welcome, I’m newish to writing. Copying and pasting from a word document doesn’t look like it kept the formatting 100% in tact, sorry

It started with the little things, what I’d steal: first his clothes, then his toothbrush, then his will - but before all that, just glances. The way his leather biker chaps creak over his cheeks as he bends into the fridge is still my favorite.

I can tell its cold out, the tip of Jordan’s nose isn’t usually this red, although I don’t see his face for very long. It’s always been curious to me, how on the coldest days he’d sweat the most on that motorcycle of his – ‘the shivers must work up a sweat,’ I think to myself. The man is like his smell, potent and alluring, but reclusive. Gone on the same breeze it wafts past on. This time is different. Since making a homoerotic joke (a mistake, I learned, after being stuck between his curled fists and a wall) about his biker leathers, he hadn’t left his jacket outside of his room – the coat rack looks less lonely with it draped over the central spire, covering it like a bed sheet ghost.

He’s got it down to a science. Tipping the bottle upside down, holding the “skirt” (his term for the crimped bottle cap ridges) to the counter’s underside, then giving it a good whack to pop open the beer bottle. It’s almost the same plink as the click of his bedroom doorknob afterward. Gone on his own breeze. God, I wish he’d grip me like that bottle.

I can see why he’s so popular with the girls in this town, the whole ‘bad boy who wants to leave a burn mark on your heart tonight’ look going for him, with the unapologetic strength to back it up. Truth be told, I don’t think he likes rooming with me – I’m his antithesis: a jaded, closeted, gay soccer player. He probably thinks I cramp his style. After tonight, I should get to know the feel. For once, I want to be the one people beg to be accompany. My strength will draw eyes like moths to a flame.

“You’re coming with me,” I say, grabbing his jacket from the rack, praying Jordan passes out drunk tonight. I nab some hair out of his brush, swipe the expensive white, cigarette smoke absorbing candle my Mormon parents brought me (Jordan can be a real chimney), and my dollar tree sewing kit.

I carve out two sizable chunks of wax after pulling out the “Secrets of the Occult!” book set I found at Goodwill. Paraphernalia runs rampant here in Salem, but these books had silver gilt pages – a weakness of mine.

“I see why Mrs. Kilmer gave me a C- in art class now,” I muse, my off-orange figurines look crude at best, their strange color from the 14 drops of my blood kneaded into the malleable wax. I couldn’t get a hold of Jordan’s blood, for obvious reasons, so I just hope the toilet paper from his shaving nick will work well enough. Another half hour of shaping garners me something close in silhouette, but lacking in detail, bearing slight resemblance to my lean frame, and Jordan’s broader, more muscled one.

I wave the heads over my lit, black candle and put some of our respective hairs on corresponding dolls. “This is Dan, you are me,” I chant, followed by “this is Jordan, you are he.” Next, I stitch a makeshift outfit – made of old shirts and pants – over my doll, running my still bleeding thumb over my face, my own brow now feeling damp with sweat. I toss a small swatch of old shirt onto the candle, it crackles like a sparkler. “I hope to God this works” I say, cutting a notch of leather from Jordan’s jacket, a thin sliver of the interior pocket’s lining. A patch of dirty underwear swiped from the laundry room makes up the pants. The candle sparks and sputters and I drape another piece of leather jacket onto the candle flame. At first, it simply lays there like the jacket covered the coatrack, then it pops like a snapdragon – choking its own flame out with thick, billowing smoke.

“Last step,” I chirp excitedly. The tome calls for me to use a red thread to bind the dolls together, but all I could find was a red shoe string I cannibalized from an old pair of sneakers. “Now I just leave them until midnight and it should be all set.” I put them in the same shoes’ box, tucking it beneath my bed.

The clock flashes 11:58 when my door slams open.

“What are you doing in h– what the fuck did you do to my coat?” Jordan’s tone shifts from mild annoyance to cool gravel upon seeing its disembodied pocket, not a hint of rage audible; but in his eyes, visible. Shit.

His gaze drops, an intimidating aura oozes from him. He barely picks up his feet as he shuffles toward me. My heart stops each scrape. I only get a few strides back before I’m pressed against my closet door. His pace never changes, he stalks toward my dresser and breaks the neck off his beer bottle, eyes locking to mine like a predator. My skin shudders as he makes equally slow advances. “Wait man, I can explain!”

“You’ve got one minute to try.”

The clock reads 11:59 as I decide to gamble with fate.

“W-when you tossed your jacket, it landed on the central spike, it caught the jacket. I was just trying to be nice and fix it?” The question like inflection gives me away faster than my ridiculous lie, his smirk sends a chill down my spine. Staring my end in the face, I dive for my last shot: the box.

I juke him with a feigned step to the right before sliding, between his legs, to the foot of my bed.

“Be a man and take your medicine!” he shouts gruffly, gripping my ankles and moving to yank me away from the foot of my bed. “I’m gonna show you how sharp that coat rack can be.”

I flick the clasp off the box and a pop of light knocks it open, stunning him. Thick tendrils of smoke seep out as I grasp the dolls, no longer soft, instead hard as marble.

“Stop,” I shout in its ear. His body freezes. The look of shock in his eyes is genuine, and it’s clear he’s struggling, the muscles along his arms and neck are pulsating, his eyes are no longer of a predator stalking prey – they’re genuinely confused, never losing the air of control. “Sit.” He does. His mint, grey, and black striped boxers making for a lovely view in his cross-legged position.

I untie the dolls. “You may speak,” I command him, but he says nothing. I think he’s realizing his situation - “Listen here, faggot. I’m gonna tell the police you tried to touch me in my sleep if you don’t get the fuck out of here right now. If you stay, when they wheel out your body, I’ll use the gay panic defense – you know I’ll get away with it -”

“Shut up,” I say, gripping the doll. “I don’t think that’s how this is going to go, Jordan,” I say, “no,” I continue, “I think you’re going to do the touching – and like it.” His forehead is beading with sweat as I consider my words wisely. My finger tapping was accidental at first, but it evolved into a slow rub along the doll’s crotch. Jordan’s muscles contract, but his limbs ultimately never move.

“Mm mmm!” he’s trying to scream, but without lip or jaw movement, its more like he stubbed a toe.

“Listen to me, Jordan,” I start, but his eyes dart away from mine. “You want to give me your undivided attention,” I whisper, “look into my eyes.” He slowly does, dragging his vision across my navy-blue comforter before meeting my hazel gaze. “You’re going to look at me like you love me, because you do! You’ve never noticed until now, but I’m the embodiment of everything you find attractive: from the way my soccer socks and cleats stink, to the way that I look, to the way I’m everything you’re not. You know, deep down, that I complete you, and you’ll want for me - more than any girl you lusted after before.”

I can see him still resisting, so I start rubbing his doll’s cock again and repeat myself. His muffled “no’s” morph to incoherent moans. If his gaze had left mine, I may not have noticed his pupils getting larger. “Tell me what you want now, Jordan” command.

His stubble glistens with sweat. “I want to touch you,” he says with fully dilated eyes, “but I don’t know how to be with a man.”

“Yes, you do,” I remind him, “do exactly what your last girlfriend did or what you’d want done.” His pupils snapped to normal, the predatory look from earlier returning, my blood goes to ice until his ass raises in the air, him dipping his spine as he crawls toward me. I’m surprised my cock doesn’t punch a hole in my briefs’ cotton.

He wrests a hand on each knee, raising his chest and flipping his head back as he nestles between my legs. A strong hand pushes me down as the other fastens in my belt loop. His lips massage over my jeans, unzipping them with his teeth.

“That last bitch is getting an edible arrangement,” I say. His lips curl into a smirk, then a purr.

“I want you so bad, Dan, but you’ve been such a naughty boy. I’ll have to punish you.” He shimmies my jeans down and palms my dick. “Mmm,” he hums, his vibrating lips glisten from my tent. By the time he frees my package, I feel ready to cum. “Ah, ah, ah,” he says, “I’m not done playing.” His tongue laps from tip to base, running over my throbbing veins. He kisses his way back down to my balls and caresses them. The back of his finger nail traces along my sack, trailing around my shaft base to form awkward pumping. His grasping my cock jolts me to sit up. That glint I saw when he broke the beer bottle is back.

One hand grips up to the tip, the other rubs its palm along my head in circles. I want to tear from my skin as I cum, him catching the end spurts with his lips. The stubble along his chin tickles my shaft and balls as he engulfs me.

“Alright,” I say, “I’m starting to get a little sensitive.”

His grin widens like a cat catching a canary. The palm circles start again, but faster and more aggressive. “Stop!” I cry out, trying to force my knees together. His elbows keep me propped open as the assault continues. He begins to rise. “Oh thank god,” I sigh.

That’s when I hear the thunk.

“Wouldn’t want you to stop me now, this is where the fun is at,” he says. His doll isn’t in sight anymore. Jordan grabs my wrists in a hand before quickening his pace with the other.

“Jordan, enough! I need a cool down, you want to please me, right?”

“Yeah, and I know just how to do it” he says, drunk in lust.

His smell is incredible.

His hand works my shaft, twisting loosely as it travels my length. I try to bring my knees up and together, but his right knee interlaces between mine and rests just below my balls. The momentary pause feels more like a warning. I let out a desperate cry as I shoot again. Jordan steps back to admire his work; I contract my legs together and roll to my side, needing to collect my overstimulated member. That is, until Jordan grips my knees together, using his forearm to push them moth back. His fingers play with my balls as his thumb encircles my hole.

The idea of letting him continue tempts me into inaction. When his treatment starts to get a little rough again, I slide a leg out from under his forearm and attempt to sweep him to the right – away from where the doll was thrown. I squirm the leg he clung to out of his grip, crawling to the doll as fast as possible.

“Stop!” he says, and I can feel my muscles hold my bone in place, fingertips on the cold, smooth porcelain of the doll. “Now tell me Dan, what is it you like the most in bed?” Jordan asks, as he walks over slowly, using a foot to flip my frozen body. I can see his finger hovering over my doll’s crotch. “Tell me, do you like being in control?”

I can feel his breath in my ear as he asks the doll. The color drains from the world, all side from Jordan. Part of me fears my pupils mimic Jordan’s a few minutes ago, part hopes for it.

“No, I want to serve you.” My rocket is already refueling, becoming hard a third time.

“And I want you to, Dan. I’ve seen you faggots before, all wanting a real man to serve. Well from now on, I’m your alpha male. You’ll be my little bitch boy. You will address me as Master, slave. Tell me, slave, what is your favorite thing about your new Master?” He asks, running a hand through his locks, teasing a view of his armpits and licking his lips at his new acquisition.

“Your smell, Master” I drone out, with fading consciousness.

“That’s good, now crawl to your master’s feet, I’ll mark you with my musk. You won’t have an identity anymore, you’ll be property,” he says.

I crawl to shove my nose in Master’s size 14 feet. His leather biker boot smell hadn’t been washed off. I feel light headed, but recognize Master’s hand rolling me onto my back.

“You new life starts tomorrow,” he says. One foot is over my mouth and nose – its intoxicating me. A true man’s smell is coating me, making me his, breaking my will. The other glides over my pulsing, aching cock, toes squeezing my balls. His balls.

It started with the little things, what I’d steal: first his clothes, then his toothbrush, then his will - but before all that, just glances – even though he’d ended up taking mine as well. The way his leather biker chaps creaked over his cheeks as he bent into the fridge was no longer my favorite; it’s the smell of his socks as he pulls off his boots after work, it’s his fist in my hair, forcing my face into his armpit after a workout.

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