Justin, Women, & What He Does

That night, a local pro sports team was scheduled to begin its quest for a championship. The first playoff game was not on free television. Camille had dredged social media to gain confidence that the Justin-Darrell crowd would spend the night at the sports bar she had seen them enter. Sela and Tessa had stated specifically in their social media accounts that they'd be there.

Camille's disinterest in sports verged on hostility, but she was determined to bottle that up. Normally she'd be overdressed for such an event, but the way Justin's acolytes presented would give Camille some cover.

The sports bar was huge, and the vicinity was jammed.

Meghan's car stopped outside the front. She said, "Good luck."

"Thanks," said Camille, stepping out. In more ways than one.

Inside, she strolled past various loud groups, few of whom were yet glued to the vast flat-screens. Camille knew enough about the presentation of televised sports to infer that what was being shown was a pre-game show. This squared with the schedule she had looked up. She wanted to make her move before the game claimed everyone's focus.

She found her quarry in a zone of high-top tables and plush lounge furniture. Justin had at least four women surrounding him. From five body-lengths away, Ronit caught sight of Camille. Ronit's eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open in alarm. Camille shook her head with a little smile, hoping Ronit would pick up that Camille wasn't going to steal Justin away.

Ronit didn't appear reassured, but she returned her attention to Justin,

Darrell stood at a high-top, behind a mug of beer. Four or five men surrounded him, listening to Darrell expound about injuries piling up at the end of the regular season.

Camille let herself be seen by this group for a few seconds. They definitely saw her, Darrell included. His recitation stalled briefly, but he regained it while still staring at Camille.

She gave them a tiny smile, then stepped over to a sofa. She got the attention of a waiter as she sat, and he approached closely enough for her to order a white wine fizz.

Then she sat so as to watch the Justin cluster and, in brief glances, Darrell's group.

It wasn't long before Darrell wrapped up whatever point he was making, and made his way to the sofa. He left behind his unfinished beer.

"May I join you?" he asked Camille, with a smile he may have thought looked friendly.

"Certainly," she said.

"Are you here to watch us go for a championship?"

"No," she replied. "I'm here to watch the people who care about that." She let her eyes move in the direction of Justin.

With no apparent displeasure, Darrell said, "You want me to set you up with Justin, right?"

Camille hoped that her rehearsal wouldn't make her responses sound too slick. "Him? Oh, please! One serious kiss would make him crumble. I'd prefer some real entertainment."

Darrell's eyes widened. Going as planned, thought Camille, with trepidation.

"It is odd, though," she said, "to see adult women, reasonably intelligent ones, fall all over themselves to get his attention." She gave Darrell what she hoped would be seen as a meaningful look. "It doesn't seem like he'd be capable of putting them in that state of mind."

Darrell chuckled. "Well, the ladies think he's cute. It's difficult to argue with looks, and their effect." He had to swallow before adding on. "Such as the effect that you're having."

She beamed at him, hoping to convey insecurity that she was trying to hide. She also saw that he had probably aimed this at the three guys who were now hovering around them.

"Why thank you," she said. "A girl always likes to hear that." She leaned closer to him, both to shed the betas and to show more cleavage. "And that was a smart move, but I won't let you change the subject. I'd like to know if your smart moves are along the lines of Henry Higgins. Or Cyrano de Bergerac."

Her drink arrived. She lifted her glass for a sip. Darrell swallowed again, without a drink.

"And who the person is," she said quietly, "who really understands about women."

She had told him point blank that she knew quite a lot. Maybe too much. Allowing him to get her alone might be a huge risk. But while she thought Darrell was dishonest, and a misogynist, she didn't think he was violent...or, at least, not competently violent.

Having gone this far, she saw no reason to stop short.

He cleared his throat, and said, "I'd be willing to, mmm, discuss this with you, in more detail."

She widened her eyes theatrically. "But the game's about to start."

He smiled, and seemed to concede a point to her. "I can always see a replay later. Would you like to join me at my place?"

***

A few covert glances around Darrell's studio apartment added to Camille's belief. He didn't have a pentagram carved into the floor, but the bookcase included a few titles purportedly dealing with the black arts.

He said, "Um, can I get you something to drink?"

"Yes," she said, eager to snoop without him noticing. "Whiskey and soda?"

"I can do that!" he said, and moved past a partition to the kitchen alcove.

While his eyes aimed elsewhere, she moved to a desk and small filing cabinet along a wall. The desk bore a laptop, the cabinet an all-in-one printer.

Camille lifted the scanner cover at the top. There was a sheet of paper on the glass.

Quietly she turned the sheet over.

It showed what struck her as nonsense words, but they were printed, and in the normal Roman alphabet. So, maybe they made sense in another language.

It wasn't something she could memorize, so she replaced the sheet face down and closed the scanner cover.

When she turned to look at the kitchen, she saw Darrell putting a bottle away. Camille stepped into the middle of the room.

He approached her with a tumbler and a nervous smile. "Here you are."

She took the tumbler with a smile and a "Thanks." But then: "Nothing for you?"

Still nervous, no longer smiling: "Um. Not now."

"Same for me, then. Until after."

The word 'after' restored his smile. "This way, then?"

She let him lead her around another partition, to his bed. She stifled a grin. For once, her dislike of bed sex would work in her favor.

She sat on the bed, feet on the floor, and with a gesture got through to him that she wasn't ready to be touched. She set her drink on the floor.

As he sat, an arm's length, away, she said, "Tell me something I don't know."

He hesitated, clearly unwilling to trust her. But once he began, he clearly showed pride in his knowledge. "In 1823, there was a theft from the British Museum. It centered on various finds from Egypt, recently delivered and not believed to have been catalogued. Investigators assumed that there must have been relics with gold and precious stones, and the explorers did not deny this. No such relics were found, and there were later accusations that the explorers inflated the value of their find in order to gain admission to the Royal Society, and that they may have been responsible for the theft.

"Later still, there were claims that others were potential thieves: Muslim iconoclasts, French investors in early attempts at the Suez Canal, Egyptians seeking repatriation of their homeland's treasures. Yet there was little interest in this topic, even among Fleet Street scandalmongers. The subject vanished from all records, including newspapers and personal correspondence, in 1827."

She stood, removed her dress, and draped it on a chair. She lay on the bed on her side, and invited him to join her. "You can lose the shirt and pants. I make the moves."

"All right," he said, complying rapidly.

Camille slid her torso along his, her nipples pebbling through lace to chest hair. "But not all traces vanished," she said. "You found them."

He gulped, and from the corner of her eye, she could see his shlong shoving his boxers. "I, I did. Certain Egyptian relics, not previously known to exist in the United Kingdom, were in the possession of a minor noble who, like so many in England then, could no longer support a prosperous style on the income from his lands. An enterprise called the Hyperborea Peat Exploitation Company bought the relics. The bill of sale carries a date of August 1831. Soon after, there began oc-, occurrences, of seduction of women of high birth."

Camille brought her bosom up to within an inch of Darrell's face. "Surely those had happened before."

"Y-yes. But now to a greater degree. A-and, known to the public."

"What did the relics include?"

Darrell swallowed, and said nothing.

Camille brought her knees forward, under her trunk, and drew back, to rest on her haunches. "Wouldn't you like to keep me interested?"

"Th-there was a talisman. It, it had been smuggled into Egypt, perhaps five thousand years ago, from somewhere west or south. It can call forth an overpowering male entity."

Camille barely kept her act together. This described precisely what she had felt while Justin fucked her.

Despite his trembling, Darrell's right hand lifted, and squeezed Camille's left breast.

Camille grasped his hand and pulled it away. "Keep talking. West? South?"

As frazzled as he was, he produced a smug grin. "Definitely not Mesopotamia! Possibly Nubia. Possibly...Atlantis."

A few months earlier, any serious reference to Atlantis would have driven her to peals of derisive laughter. But her recent experiences blunted that reflex. How could she dismiss the involvement of The Lost Continent in Justin's influence over her?

"A sorcerer," said Darrell, "can use the talisman, a-and cast a spell, to lodge the entity in a human host. Once there, the entity can make any woman enjoy the most extreme pleasure."

Camille freed her hands, and moved them behind her back. She unhooked the bra and let it slide downward, about an inch. "Have you become a sorcerer, Darrell?"

Hoarsely he said, "I am able to use the talisman."

She let the bra fall down her arms. Darrell gasped, his body jolting.

"Can anyone be a host?" she asked. Then she wondered if she'd have to repeat that, while snapping her fingers before his eyes.

But he said, "It's not clear." Then, perhaps to bolster his chops as a sorcerer, he added, "I'm researching that. The relics included a codex for the talisman."

Atlantis was one thing, but it was all Camille could do, not to bust out laughing at the thought of the talisman accompanied by a user manual. Thinking of 'bust,' she filled her hands with her breasts, and raised the flesh towards Darrell. "Do you like these?"

"Ohhh yes!" His smile was goofier than any of Justin's.

"Hold still," she said.

He did.

She leaned at him quickly, brushed her right nipple against his lips, then just as quickly leaned back.

"Keep me interested, Darrell."

"Y-yes, I will."

"How did you find the relics?"

He groaned. "Through years of study. Blind alleys. Dead ends. Finally, excavation of peat bogs in Scotland."

"And you've made Justin a host."

"Yes."

"How?"

He smirked. "He had complained for a long time about how the women who gushed over his looks were disappointed by his lovemaking. I brought him here, once I knew how to use the talisman, and put him in a trance. The fool doesn't know anything else!"

"Are there any other hosts?"

"No."

"So he can do this any time he wants, to any woman?"

"Not entirely. Sometimes he has to return here, so I can put him in another trance,"

She wanted desperately to ask why Darrell was doing this. Instead, she focused on what she might be able to do to stop it.

First, however, he said morosely. "I cannot give you that supreme pleasure. Not yet, but perhaps soon I can!" He wheezed. "Please, wait for me! If you lie with Justin, he could take you from me!"

She froze for an instant, recalling what he'd asked in the bar, if she wanted him to fix her up with Justin. Darrell doesn't know that I fucked Justin. Just as Ronit and Sela didn't.

Camille now found tonight's exit strategy. She smiled at him and cooked up her biggest lie yet: "I'll wait for you, Darrell."

"Really? Ohhhh, thank you!"

She repeated her rubbing of their torsos, but this time, with her breasts freed. Darrell's head tipped back. his teeth gritted, and he keened, almost inaudibly.

Pulling his boxers down his thighs, knees, and calves, she asked, "What did the talisman do in Egypt?"

"It brought down dynasties! Each new ruler sought to preserve the secret, but then had his own manhood overtaken by a newer host!" He might have been laughing, but mostly he gagged as Camille's fingers raised his purpling prick.

Tossing his shorts aside, she wondered, How long can I edge him?

"But Egypt survived," said Camille, looking past the penis to the face. "Something must have prevailed over the talisman."

She shifted to kneel on the floor, and hauled his legs over the edge of the bed. She leaned between his thighs. Gently, she wrapped her tits around his cock.

He howled, and his trunk jerked. But he didn't spew.

Slowly she drew back a few inches, clear of his shaft.

He stared at her and drew three ragged breaths. Finally he said, "Yes. Egypt had sorcerers of its own. Equal to the task of...combatting foreign magic."

She read between the lines: They did, or used, something specifically Egyptian. And then used the 'foreign magic' themselves.

Camille poker-faced that thought. Carefully, she changed the subject. "And now you're the sorcerer. The one in control."

She leaned forward again. She opened her mouth, lowered her tongue, and released a dollop of spit onto his glans.

He gave a gargly cry, and his whole body cringed.

When he eased, she leaned in once more. She held out her breasts, so he could watch as she slowly converged them on his cock. When everything of his was hidden save the tip, she smiled and said, "I like the warmth you're giving me. Do you like the warmth I'm giving you?"

"Ohgodyes!"

She raised her breasts, lowered them, repeated. His glans vanished, then emerged. Her contact around him was light, but enough to move his skin with hers.

Her fingers were spread, so he could see her nipples as they darkened, her areolas as they expanded.

His eyes were wide, his mouth agape, in worship.

Once again she opened her breasts, and leaned away. His dick quivered.

"You control Justin," she said. "Your power is greater than his."

He nodded.

She traced a finger up his semen duct.

He groaned.

She had hoped he'd volunteer how he controlled Justin.

She knew if she simply asked, he'd clam up. And even her clam wouldn't reopen his.

She had a vague idea about it, though. Something Egyptian.

Yet again, she brought her breasts--now hot with excitement, she realized, as was her groin--to enfold Darrell's dork.

Damn! Now I'm off the bed!

She drew a deep breath and forced herself to focus. This time she alternated the breasts, one up and the other down, at the bottom pressing onto that side's testicle.

Sweat poured from him. He emitted a steady growl like a summertime cicada.

"Your control," she said, loudly enough for him to hear, "keeps me interested."

"Yes," he whimpered. "Yes."

If he had been attempting control then, he failed. Semen geysered between and above Camille's breasts, while Darrell yelled. Camille gasped, and squeezed him harder, wanting him to cum even more, wanting to rub her clit against the bed frame and cum herself, but no, there was nothing to gain from staying, she knew as much as he would tell her.

He might have blacked out. If nothing else, he was probably too spent to stop her.

She did up the dress, stuffed the bra into her purse, and stepped into her shoes. When she got to the front door, she neither heard nor saw him.

In the stairwell, she dug the phone out of her purse.

When the building's door shut behind her, she said into the phone. "Out and safe."

"I see you," came Meghan's voice.

The pull on the seat belt, on the passenger side, disarrayed the dress.

"Nice tits!" Meghan declared, giggling.

"Kiss my ass, dyke," growled Camille, frazzled from orgasm denial. Then she found a laugh of her own, and hauled both breasts close to the driver. "You like 'em? They're covered with semen!"

"Eeewwww!" Meghan responded, shying away.

***

Camille looked for, and easily found, some cheap trinkets. What mattered most to her was that they weren't tiny. Each one had a reasonable heft, and when she held one in her hand, her fingertips secured it while showing what it was. They were mass-produced from metal and plastic, but she had a feeling that this wouldn't work against them. Their images, and shapes, might be what mattered most.

Or so she hoped.

Last time, Camille had been lucky to catch Justin on a night when he was out in public but not loaded down with his entourage. This time, she sent him a message to invite him to her place:

//

Could you please come over tonight at 8 pm, and be awesome again? I'd like to introduce you to a lady friend of mine, who has heard all about your awesomeness! The three of us can love each other as long as we have to.

//

He responded with "Wow! Yeah!" Also, some emojis.

Meghan arrived at seven. She stripped to show Camille a red bra and matching underwear. "I buy for comfort," said Meghan. "Is this good enough?"

"From what I've heard, he isn't into lingerie." Camille assessed Meghan more closely, not having seen this much of her before. "You look fine. And he thinks he's getting a three-way, so he'll be totally motivated."

While Meghan dressed, Camille said, "You need to tell me this now. Can you, ah, sense, the supernatural?"

Timidly Meghan said, "I think so. That's happened before. But I've stopped trying to convince people."

"Just be honest with me about, um, anything you sense. Please."

A small nod, and "Okay."

They waited. Camille spread the comforter on the floor, and set her purse next to it. The women discussed what they'd try to accomplish, and Meghan stated that she could, as needed, kiss and embrace a man in the early stages, without disgust or boredom.

Justin arrived about twenty minutes early. He bubbled with praise for both women, and eagerly got into get-acquainted chat with Meghan. Camille let this continue until it appeared to run its course, thinking a quick drop to the comforter might seem suspicious. But to Camille, Justin seemed just as clueless while sober, merely a bit quicker and more precise in conversation.

To Camille, Meghan seemed nervous as she looked at Justin. But wouldn't she, anyway?

While Camille guided the others to the comforter, Justin chuckled over returning to the 'Up.' As the three undressed, Justin said, "Gosh, Camille, it's been so long! I was afraid I'd done something wrong. I've seen you a few times, but you didn't even say hi."

Camille smiled, while listening closely. "You've usually been in a crowd. And, um, I needed time to think about what we did." This was entirely true. She hoped it came across as helplessness.

Meghan, in bra and briefs, stretched along Justin's right side, caressing his chest and abdomen. Justin put his arm around her and nuzzled her hair. This seemed nice, but Camille saw his arm muscles flex, and Meghan seemed to tense at his strong hold.

Camille shed her bra, and shook Droopy and Droopier side to side while pulling away Justin's briefs.

The man spoke in a different voice. "So lovely."

Smoothly, Camille reached into her purse and removed the first item she touched.

She held it out for the man to see, while her other hand encircled his rising dick. The object was the Egyptian symbol known as the Eye of Horus.

The man's eyes widened, and the lips curled in a smirk. "Oh. So this explains it."