tagSci-Fi & FantasyFaeophobia: Magic's Hour Ch. 01

Faeophobia: Magic's Hour Ch. 01

byJediRockstar©

Author's Note: I'd like to thank XXXecil for the creation of such vivid worlds, and for his unique openness towards other authors playing in them. I've been a fan for a number of years, and this is my contribution to a great body of work. I only hope I do it justice. I believe he's taking commissions now, if you ever have an idea you'd like to see developed but simply don't have the time, I recommend getting in touch with him.

I'm just getting started as a writer, so please, if you have any feedback, don't be hesitant to share!

Part 1

Los Angeles, California

From a plush chair in the penthouse office atop the headquarters of Arand incorporated, Richard Roark mused. There was trouble on the horizon. Arand, his company, had been a mid-sized pharmaceutical company prior to the Celestial Conjunction. When the stars aligned and magic returned to the Earth, along with the various Fae races, he had seen potential and acted.

The spiteful and the racist reinvented themselves as Faeophobic, and the 24 hour news channels were clogged with amateur pundits and angry partisans all trying to scare their audiences into agreeing that the end was nigh. Popular sentiment turned against the unearthly immigrants, the common perception being that they were an undue burden on the human race. In the end, Roark had been proven right. Less than two months post-Conjunction, the R&D boys at Arand had harnessed Fae magic to develop enhanced products unlike anything the human race had ever before conceived.

Magi-Care Industries was the name of the Arand subsidiary Roark created to run the patents through. The curses and hexes patented under the Magi-Care brand could destroy all manner of infections. There were glamors and youth serums patented that could slow and, in some cases, even reverse ageing. Initial consumer reaction was tepid, until Roark himself gave a press conference looking like Adonis. At least 40 years younger and lithely muscled under a fitted golf shirt, people everyone conveniently forgot their prior mistrust. Even the most staunchly xenophobic politicians had to reinvent their platforms as the public en masse bought what magic was selling.

The second generation of Magi-Care products came soon after, things like lipophage pills that cured obesity and protective charms to ward off surreptitious Fae trickery. Arand, Inc. quickly became one of the world's largest corporations; rivals either adopted their business model or went extinct. When the third wave of Magi-Care products were ready for safety testing, the FDA had rubber stamped them before they arrived.

Hygiene products were just the opening salvo. A mystical weapons division, developed under the Arand subsidiary Magi-Corp, was Roark's next step. Mystical barriers for soldiers, magically-enhanced technology and weaponry, a combat division staffed by human and Fae soldiers, all of it came with no-bid contracts. There simply were no other companies that could rival Arand's expertise in thaumaturgy, the study and practice of spells, and mage-eneering, the grafting of those spells to real-world applications. Five years after the celestial conjunction, the profit margins of Arand, Incorporated rivalled a small nation! Once an unremarkable company, Roark took full credit for its transformation into the world's largest transnational entity. By his estimation, it doubled as a metaphor of the changes in humanity that accompanied the return of magic.

Always a wary businessman, Roark had commissioned the biggest brains in R&D to figure out where the energy for this magic was coming from. Magic flaunted the laws of science rather flagrantly, but all this energy still had to come from somewhere. Specifically, he wanted to know if there would be any negative costs to magic use. He wasn't shy about externalizing costs – you couldn't run a profitable company without passing the buck on some things, whether it be pollution, disease, or whatever – but he just wanted to know what it was. Three years and nearly a billion dollars in research later, he'd gotten his answer. There's no such thing as a free lunch went the old business axiom. When he was informed of the gravity of the situation, Roark set plans in motion to be gone before the cheque came.

His musing was interrupted by the Veela between his legs, a paragon of Eastern European beauty whose divine looks would have, in ages past, inspired master painters and driven poets mad. She was currently holding Roark's cock to his stomach so that she could better suckle his testicles. Her name was Yania, and she was his secretary in name and his personal wench in practice. Still fully clothed in the formal business-wear he'd paid to have tailored to her rather exaggerated feminine shape, she massaged his balls with her tongue in an attempt to coax more sperm from the fleshy eggs. Her eyes closed in quiet determination, she sucked and lapped at the genitalia in her mouth for the only prize he'd ever seen her desire: sperm, and as much of it as she could get.

He'd fucked the sprightly blonde Fae thoroughly over the past few hours and, having emptied a solid pint of genetic material into her various orifices, he was content to muse while she pleasured him. It's a good world, he thought to himself. Too bad it can't last.

If Arand was a metaphor for humanity, Yania would be a metaphor for the Fae: once strong-willed and self-possessed, now a sex-puppet for a human male. She began rubbing his cock as she sucked, an edge of desperation apparent from her motions. "Please... mmmmmmphhh... just a leettle more mmmmmPAH! ...cum, I'll do anyzing! ...shhhhhluck just a leettle more, plees Mr. Roark..." she said, her thick Slavic accent blurring her words into her grunts.

He smirked when the Veela maid gazed up at him. The desperation in her eyes matched the rest of her. "You want more?" he asked. She nodded. The nipples of her massive, EE-cup breasts stiffened in anticipation, tenting her blouse.

"You know what you have to do."

She gave a hesitant nod, lowered her head, and chanted softly into his testicles. Motes of light sparkled in the room as the spell began reshaping reality. Roark felt a familiar tingle before his balls began to grow.

And grow. And grow. And grow! First they swelled upwards, but quickly they became so large and sperm-filled that they hung comically off his chair. Yania's spell had added least a gallon of cum to his reserves – but the magically-enhanced seminal fluid came with a terrible lust.

Madness took him and Roark threw his Fae "secretary" (whore!!! he thought) onto his desk and plunged cock-deep into sweet Faerie snatch. "Take it, take my cock you Fae bitch!" he yelled into the air. Yania just screamed in pleasure and fucked him back. Twelve inches of enchanted cock filled her mind with white light and her pussy with edged ecstasy.

"YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!" She cried to the ceiling. Twin white legs, perfectly sculpted like the art of a renaissance master, wrapped around Roark's back, encouraging her mate to fuck his mate harder. The heels of her eight-hundred dollar business pumps dug into his flesh, preventing any sort of escape. Not that he'd want to, rutting away in this Fae's pussy was always the highlight of his day.

Girl-cum sprayed from her pulsating pussy with every thrust. "Harder, HARDER!!" she demanded. Her partner obeyed; grabbing her hair at the nape of her neck and wrapping his other arm around her impossibly thin waist, he picked up his little slut and fucked her standing.

"Tell me who's slut you are," he said into her ear.

Eyes rolled into her head, eyelids flickering. She didn't answer.

"Tell me!!" he screamed at her.

"Your slut," she whispered. She even moans in Russian, fuck that is hot, Roark thought.

Holding her at the top his cock (tiny though she was, she was now eye level with him, such was the size of his shaft), he asked, "Who's slut are you?"

Her eyes rolled back into her head, and Yania became hysterical. The lust had taken her! In times like this, there was nothing an Faerie girl wouldn't say or do now to get a thick slab of man-meat back where it belonged: inside her.

"I'm your SLUT! I'm your COCK-WHORE!," she bucked her hips at the tip of his dick trying to get it in, to no avail. "I need zat beeg fucking DICK of yours, please! I'm your SLAVE! Your CUM-DUMPSTER! Just GIFF ME YOUR CO-aaaaaahhhhhhck!!!" Roark fucked her as hard as he could, sweat flying as they collided.

Before even he knew he was cumming, the little Fae whore was on her knees, cock slipping down her throat, her nose pressed to his stomach. The orgasm hit Roark like, like... a tsunami... like an atom bomb... like the fist of God. He tried to compare the feeling to anything, but the orgasm forced the air out his lungs and mind into oblivion. More sperm than even the spell could account for, nearly a gallon in all, spurted from the tip of his cock straight into Yania's stomach. As her insides filled with semen, Roark thought for a second she... she was pregnant! But no, it was simply a food-baby, her stomach unable to contain the volume of cum he was feeding her.

Yania's crystal blue eyes coruscated with the euphoria that only addicts know. The bliss of the fix. Благодарение Богу! <God, yes!> she thought.

She managed "Ugh, Gahh, yaathh..." from around the salami-sized object in her airway.

Roark had met his future concubine after a performance of Giselle in St. Petersburg. She had been a member of the prestigious Mariinsky ballet company, about half of which was comprised of Veela at that point. The Slavic faeries were avian in nature, which gave them preternatural lightness and grace that human dancers could never hope to match. After the great migration of Fae, dance studious around the world had been quick to snatch them up. Many companies ended up regretting their choice; Veela were just as lusty and frivolous as other Faerie races. Too many Fae in one studio and more often than not the studio would dissolve. You just couldn't practice for hours when the only dance the performers wanted to do was the horizontal mambo.

When the Veela did choose to perform for a human audience, though, it was a wondrous spectacle to behold. Yania, being a swan Faerie, was famed even among her people for her skills as a dancer.

Roark had been smitten after watching her perform, so he'd paid to have her abducted. His best thaumaturgists had wrought spells and curses upon her so that she would be chemically dependant on his semen. This was much to Yania's initial displeasure, but after a few months of sexual submissiveness she started to enjoy herself. Even the semen addiction was a fun twist. If she had known what a mosquito bite was, she would have thought it similar to scratching one every time Roark came down her throat.

When he was sure she was a full addict and not likely to flee, Roark had set Yania up at Arand with a job as his secretary. That way, should he ever have need of her particular services, she wouldn't be far.

Yania now held her bloated stomach in her hands, as if to cradle the gift of sperm she'd been given. She spontaneously shuddered in orgasm from the temporary relief it gave her from her addiction.

She let the phallus slip out her throat and held it in her mouth, a few spurts dripping onto her tongue. She would have said, "Thank you, sir," if she still possessed the mental capacity to speak, which she didn't. The relief Yania felt was so intensely satisfying that her hyperbolic body spasmed in small, epileptic fits.

Roark caught his breath while his paramour came down from her high. Her mental acuity returning, she swished the remaining semen around in her mouth like a connoisseur, enjoying the subtleties of her mate's taste. Like most of the Veela, she had been trained since youth in the Fae Fine Arts, and so was an expert semen-taster. She could discern near everything about a man's physical health and diet from his the taste of his spunk.

"How vas zee steak last night?" Yania asked. She absentmindedly wiped up a few stray rivulets of semen from her business jacket and put them in her mouth.

Roark laughed and sat back into his seat. "Not bad, though not quite what I ordered."

The blonde tart thought about the taste of the cum in her mouth for a second. "Mmm, a leettle more rare than you normally order. Anton was zee chef last night, I'll haff vords vis him."

"It does giff your sperms a neyes aftertaste, zough," she added with a smile.

Roark smiled back. "Glad you enjoy. Always nice to get feedback from a connoisseur." He slunk as a sweaty mass into his expensive leather chair. "Well, on that note, I think I can say our meeting is concluded. Thank you for your assistance, Yania."

"I'll be at my desk if you haff any more... soughts on zee matter," she said in a purr. After standing, Yania fought to tuck her blouse in around her sperm gut. Roark thought of the genetic material of his that was currently swishing around inside her. That should keep her happy for a while, he thought. Voluminous blonde hair, svelte legs, a thin waist, pointed ears that projected at least 6 inches from her head, massive breasts on a tiny frame, all framed by a bloated belly... it made for an odd combination of features. Somehow it looked sexy on his secretary (whore, he thought again). Roark took a moment to watch the Veela's ass bounce and jiggle as she exited the office.

Back to business, he thought. Clothes might be good for that. He towelled off and began to dress, staring off into the Los Angeles skyline. It was night, but the skyscrapers of downtown L.A. illuminated the surrounding switchboard of city lights like candles on a cake. Beyond city limits, the San Gabriel mountains became ominous shadows in the unnatural glow.

The minutes melted away until finally it was nine o'clock, at which point the teleconference screen behind Roark's desk turned itself on with no apparent intervention. The face on the screen belonged to United States Vice President Frank O'Connor. The balding man stared through the screen with his signature expression: an abusive father's cold anger mixed with the indignation one feels at having stepped in shit. Holy hell, Roark thought, he's the Great and Terrible Oz. He had to cough to suppress a chuckle.

The VP boomed right along like he didn't notice. "'Evening, Roark. I've been asked by the board to get an update on the Project. First I'll need your clearance code," he said. In the days of magic, identity theft was taken to a whole new level. Since corporate spies could now drink potions to assume the appearance of CEO's and heads of state, a myriad of precautions were necessary to the protect even the basic levels of business.

Roark gave the day's code. "Hotel. India, Juliet. Romeo. Alpha."

"Sierra. Lima. Uniform. Tango. Sierra," the VP said back.

"If we're done with pleasantries, I'd like to wrap this up as quickly as possible." Roark started. "Project Hijra is near completion. My thaumaturgists installed the power source today. Barring unforeseen delays, we'll be on schedule for next month."

Richard Roark did not enjoy giving reports like some third-grader in front of the class. As the project approached completion, the insistence on 'status updates' from his government financers only increased in frequency. He was CEO and largest shareholder of the world's largest company, who was this little bureaucrat this he was to talk down to Richard Roark? Sadly, Project Hijra did need financial backing, which was much less noticeable coming from the world's governments instead of its businesses. Which all meant dealing with Vice President O'Connor.

"It'd better be," the choleric politician was already going red in the face. "I don't know how much longer the situation in Florida is going to stay under control. If shit hits the fan, be ready to move early." The bespectacled VP never wavered from his grim appearance. His refusal to use magic to enhance his ugly appearance had been a big hit with pro-Human voters, enough to get him on the ballot as vice president. Roark thought his appearance was noisome, and unnecessary.

"Even if the Florida quarantine fails, Site 18 is completely isolated from civilian populations," Roark said. "I'm sorry for the secrecy of it's location, but I can't take any chance that might compromise the project. You'll be escorted there by my personal staff when we get underway next month." The vice president had known the location of Site 18 for some time and Roark was aware of that fact. He also no doubt knew that Roark knew, but they both spoke as if all secrecy had been maintained. It was the polite thing to do.

"I don't care about any of that shit. Just make sure everything is ready for next week. If it doesn't work, I'll deny all knowledge of it's existence and you'll be arrested for treason."

Roark was irritated again by the man's condescension. Against his better judgement, he imitated a shocked face. "With all the government officials and captains of industry involved? One lone traitor would be a hard sell even for you, Frank. Well, if my patriotism is being questioned, perhaps the president should be informed of the plan? I'm sure Jeb would be delighted for a chance to play with the grown-ups."

Vice President O'Connor scowled, his sole convincing facial expression.

"I want you to schedule my assistant for an inspection of the site next week. Take any precautions you feel necessary, but make it happen. Complete tour of the facility, none of the off-limits bullshit that happened last time. And Roark?"

"Yes, dear?" Now he was just being glib.

"Watch your fucking mouth."

When the onscreen image blinked out of existence, Roark was alone again. Charming man, he thought, I'm going to miss him. The look of having tasted something unpleasant began to fade with the VP's absence. The reflexive sarcasm he felt rise like bile whenever he dealt with public officials faded with it. If I ever get lonely for the experience of Frank O'Connor, he mused, I can always shove my dick in a pencil sharpener.

A button on his desk connected to him to an old-fashioned speaker phone located on Yania's desk.

"Yania, get Feigenbaum on the horn, tell him there's going to be an inspection of the facility next week by our benefactors."

"Yes, sir," a static-laden voice chimed back.

What the hell, he needed a pick-me-up. He pressed the button again. "Actually, before you do that, I've had a few more thoughts on our earlier meeting. Would you join me in the conference room?"

"On my vay, sir," was the response.

He removed his pants and tossed them over his chair. Won't be needing these.

Apalachicola Reserve, Florida

At an isolated rest spot hidden somewhere in the Florida panhandle, three Faerie girls were enjoying a small gang-bang. Professor Lily, a tenured academic who looked for all the world like a nubile, green-haired, vaguely Asian-looking co-ed, was being roughly taken by a group of beefy rednecks. Normally the domination of such a powerful female figure would produce sexist sneers from the men, but they could only grunt in sweaty determination. Such was her power; their worlds had been reduced to the mouth, pussy, and ass of this unearthly beauty.

Lily had paralyzed the entire county of Panama City recently by casting the Infinite Beauty spell along the US-98, resulting in the largest outdoor orgy of the decade. The spell was dangerous, but a colleague at Madison University had hypothesized Lily's adventures on Earth had given her the energy to undergo apotheosis – the transformation into a Goddess. If true, no spell was off-limits to her. But even gods need rest from time to time, hence the refuelling of her energy with the studs around her.

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