The Wrong Treatment Pt. 03

The Wrong Treatment Part III

"Ms. Armstrong, are we disturbing you?" Mr. Phelps stopped his lecture.

Misty flipped her phone face down and slid it to the corner of her desk.

"No. Sorry," she mumbled.

The bored 18-year-old slunk back in her chair and stared down at her notebook until the perturbed psychology teacher returned to his lesson. Free of his attention, she slipped off her gray hoodie and hung it over the backrest. In all the time I'd ever known her, from middle school till that moment in senior year, I had never seen her wear a revealing item of clothing. Her wardrobe was a medley of jackets, which concealed all but her face. I suspected a lot had to do with her brother, Richie. As a varsity football player and a grade-A tool like Brent, he and his buddies were always objectifying the preppy, popular girls that liked to test the limits of the school dress code with skimpy skirts and low-cut shirts. Misty clearly wasn't interested in becoming one of those bubble-headed sluts. That is part of the reason I'd always liked her. That, and her cute smile, pretty face, and biting wit. She didn't have to show off her body to be attractive.

She didn't HAVE to, but today she was. Drinking in the new look, my eyes gravitated over the cleavage of her girly, pink top that cinched so tight around her breasts, I wouldn't have been surprised to see the two sequestered mounds of flesh burst from the seams and flash the entire classroom. They were not the biggest tits, but on her skinny frame, and in that snug top, they projected like a couple of over-ripened grapefruit ready to squirt at the slightest pressure. I fidgeted nervously as my dick hardened and contemplated how strong the magic must be to have altered Misty's psyche so abruptly. First Brent's mom, and now her. I could not afford to let the situation get out of hand. Richie deserved to suffer, but not his sister.

Recalling the label to the love potion, "For a binding love, that will not break until the hour is of late," my mind scrambled to deduce its meaning. Many nights had passed since I dosed Brent, and the effects of the drug were as prevalent as ever. And why was it making people attracted to women in their own families? I wished I could ask my grandpa for help, but that would mean admitting to stealing and using restricted potions from his shop on unsuspecting kids my age. Fuck!

It occurred to me that though Brent and Richie had been at football practice when they chugged down the mysterious elixir, their attention hadn't been on their teammates on the field. They had both been interacting with their phones... Holy shit! I felt like an idiot. The magic wasn't determined on creating incestuous couples. It was just happenstance they both were communicating with family at the time they were affected.

"Ms. Armstrong, what did I say about text-" Mr. Phelps's voice caught in his throat as his eyes fell on the busty teen. She had tried to stow the phone in her lap and was leaning forward, arms parallel and pressing against her boobs, squeezing them together, as she tried to text covertly.

"Put the phone away or it is detention!" the flustered middle-aged man managed to stammer.

I noticed a few other kids gawking at Misty as she bent to stuff the device into her pack. It sickened me to imagine how Richie would react seeing his sister in such a vulnerable position. The jerk would no doubt whip out his cock and fuck her over the desk, taking a fistful of her long, dark mane and pulling it back until she was so overcome with both pain and pleasure that her legs would turn to jelly and she would cave to an earth-shattering climax. Jeeze. I shook off the thought. I was becoming too desensitized thanks to the incredible libido of Brent and Mrs. Young.

If only Richie had drunk from his bottle a few seconds later... If only he had become infatuated with someone else. The thought of coupling the bastard with a different mate unfolded in my mind. Why couldn't I give him another treatment? I had only used a couple drops for each go-round. There was plenty left in the vial. I watched Misty stretch her legs out, then prop her head up with her hand. Hopefully, the spell would wear off once her brother bonded with someone else. It was worth a try at least.

When the lunch bell rang, I rushed down the hall to intercept Brent before Mr. Phelps could even say "dismissed." No point wasting time when every minute that passed drove the magic to spread its roots deeper. And why risk getting caught on the football field when I could just order my minion to do it for me?

"I need you to get me Richie's backpack," I demanded as Brent walked past me. I didn't want to clue him in that I was about to slip stuff into his friend's drink.

"What?" He shook his head in angry confusion. "First his jacket, now his backpack?"

"Yeah. I don't care how you get it. Just get it done... Or else." Man, I loved making ominous threats to a dude who used to pummel me for just existing.

"I can't," Brent replied.

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"He has lunch detention," Brent steamed through clenched teeth.

Detention. Crap... Wait... Actually. That could work. That could work brilliantly. No Misty, no access to cellular devices, a limited group of lowlifes to get focused on...

"With whom?" I pried.

"Mrs. Watson, I think."

I whizzed past Brent and shuffled my way down the corridor. Mrs. Watson was our history teacher. A woman in her late thirties, with mid-length chestnut hair that was restrained into a bun most days. She was married with two toddlers that she liked to gloat about like they were God's gift to humanity. She even had a family picture of them posed with her husband on her desk next to one of her figure skating decades ago. Apparently, her dream career was to be on the ice, but it was cut short after suffering a knee injury in college, so she went into teaching. Her classes were brutal, and the tests were just as unsympathetic. I believed she hated her job because she secretly begrudged each student. She was overly stern and had no sense of humor, often reprimanding kids for the smallest infractions like passing notes.

"Here goes nothing," I whispered to myself before barging into the classroom. I scanned the group of miscreants sitting dejectedly at their desks. I counted six including Richie. I walked past a girl with a lip ring, much too much makeup, and jet-black hair with white emo bangs covering her eyes. I'd never seen her before in my life. Richie was sitting behind an obese kid who didn't talk much and was a year older than everyone else after getting held back as a sophomore.

I slumped into the desk behind Richie. His backpack leaned against the back leg of his seat. Mrs. Watson sat with perfect posture behind the computer in the front of the room. Her lips pursed as she peered over a pair of thick-rimmed librarian glasses, which rested on the edge of her nose, concentrating on the screen in front of her. Matched with her conservative frumpy checkered dress that fell to her ankles, and went out of style 40 years ago, the outfit gave her the appearance of a woman trying to pass for a lady twice her age. That didn't stop kids from passing notes with stick-figure drawings of them boning her. She was one of the youngest teachers after all. Heck, it may have even encouraged them knowing she was trying so hard not to avoid being the object of their teenage fascination.

She was also one of those teachers who assigned seats, making sure to separate friends so they wouldn't talk and disrupt her curriculum. The first day we got our syllabus she said that she had no tolerance for misbehavior and had lived up to her word by giving out a handful of lunch detentions every day. As a loner, I was not a traditional attendant to her midday sentences and usually managed to lay low and unnoticed till the bell rang.

Swallowing, I felt my hand sweating as I unscrewed the tiny bottle of potion in my pocket. The room was completely quiet, save for the soft sound of intermittent chewing, and the tick from the mounted clock behind me. I waited a couple minutes, hoping for an opportunity, but none arose so I stretched my foot to nudge Richie's bag. The water canister wouldn't take much to jar loose. That's when the door burst open and the sound of garbled voices from the hallway bled into the room.

"Sorry, Mrs. Watson," interjected a brawny, 6'2" black student, Andre Michaels, as he barged in.

"There was a line outside. It took ten minutes to get my lunch." He peppered his excuse by raising the sandwich he'd purchased from a vendor.

Mrs. Watson looked up from her computer and skeptically rolled her eyes.

"Andre, sit down. And maybe try making different plans next week, because you just earned an extra two days of lunches in here."

"Why you gotta be that way, Mrs. W." Andre slouched and made his way to the seat next to Richie.

The guy was a notorious ex-footballer, though he never bullied anyone that I knew about. He also had a good reputation with the ladies. There was a rumor he was the first freshman to ever fuck a senior cheerleader at our school. Up until his Junior year, he had been on a fast path to a big scholarship for his talents on the field. But last winter, he got pegged for a DUI and lost his place on the team, his clean record, and all his prospects. Tons of potential wasted.

It was rare to see him in school. He was flakey about the whole thing now that it didn't matter. As he got up to toss the wrap to his food, I tugged Richie's bag and quietly withdrew his water bottle. If he turned around and saw me messing with his stuff, I would be dead. I loosened the lid and blindly added a couple drops into the container under my desk. My fingers shook as I screwed the cap back on awkwardly. Andre was on his way back. I dropped Richie's water into the side pocket and kicked his bag against the leg of his desk. I watched helplessly as the unsecured bottle slipped out of the pocket and began rolling across the floor. Richie turned to see my foot on his bag.

"Get your foot off my bag or I will zip you in it and throw you off the roof."

"Got it." Andre bent over and snagged the cylindrical aluminum mug before sitting back down in the desk next to Richie's.

"What kind of hooch you slingin' today, bro?" he teased, spinning the top off and peering inside the container.

Richie turned back to his friend. "I keep the good shit in my locker."

Andre smiled and brought the canister over his lips. I watched in slow-motion horror as the lump of his Adam's apple rose and fell in conjunction with his glugging down a few mouthfuls of the contaminated liquid. Things couldn't get worse.

"I don't have you on my list," Mrs. Watson's voice cut sharply across the silent room. Everyone looked up. She was staring directly at me.

"I... uh..." I was at a loss for words. I'd had an excuse prepared, something about the security guard catching me being tardy, but my mind was too busy parceling out the ramifications of what Andre had just done.

"S-sorry." I heard myself stutter as I stood and high-tailed it to the door. "I am supposed to be in another room."

The other students cracked up hearing that. I snuck one final glance over my shoulder to see Andre handing Richie his empty bottle back. I almost tripped over Misty, who was sitting right outside the door, eating her lunch. She looked pale and antsy. None of her food had been touched except for the banana she clutched in her right hand.

She didn't seem to hear me as I apologized for almost stepping on her. Her dazed, glassy-eyed expression gazed across the hall to the lockers. I couldn't help but stare down her cleavage at the enticing smooth skin.

"Hey, are you okay?" I waved a hand in front of her face.

"Peachy," she barely acknowledged.

Lunch was nearly over. Maybe if I had more time, I could have tried to draw her away from her brother. That would have to wait. As it was, my plan had backfired again. I cursed to myself, keeping my head low as I trudged down the squeaky hallway. What would happen now if the tally of those infected by my hand continued to grow? I couldn't risk using the potion again, I couldn't be careless. Misty, Andre... They were innocent. And though I could argue that with better parenting Brent never would have become a bully, and none of this would have happened, I did feel bad for Mrs. Young.

The bell rang. Richie burst out of Mrs. Watson's history classroom. He didn't seem surprised by his sister huddled up against the wall. Checking both directions to see if anyone was watching, I barely avoided eye contact, as he grabbed Misty's hand and led her down the hallway. With dread, I chose to follow them at a safe distance, suspecting he was not planning to go to his next class. As we weaved hallways, and more kids thinned out, ducking into their respective classrooms, I became more and more visible. Richie was no longer guided by paranoia, but something else, pulling his sister along, checking every window until he came upon an empty room. The final bell rang just as he dragged her in, leaving me alone and in danger of getting caught truant. Quickly, I took out my phone and paired it with the microphone in Richie's jacket. The signal was weak, but it connected, though I couldn't see them. Richie's smug voice resonated over the distortion of the jacket.

"Admit it. Even now, all you can think about is how much you want to suck my cock."

"Don't flatter yourself," Misty replied with lacking conviction.

"Come on, baby sis."

"I'm not your baby sis! You were born five minutes before me."

"You look so hot when you're mad."

"Richie, no..." More distortion as the jacket rubbed against the mic.

"You look so good," his voice grew lower. "This is what happens when you tease me." I heard a zipper.

A tiny gasp.

"I am not Gluggg-" At first, I thought I lost audio, but then Richie's voice rumbled.

"Look at me. Yeah, like that."

Removing an earbud, I heard footsteps coming closer from around the corner. In a split-second decision, I quietly opened the door and slipped into Richie and Misty's classroom. It was dark and full of lab tables. They were nowhere to be seen, but then I noticed the light coming from the supply room in the back. Creeping close, I peeked through the tiny window.

"That's it, suck my cock like the little slut you are."

Misty squatted in front of her brother, eyes bulging as her mouth bobbed up and down.

"Mmmm!!" I heard the lewd sounds of her mouth sucking as her cheeks vacuumed around his 18-year-old rod.

"Glug...Glug...Glug...SSSLLLUUURRRPPPP!"

"Uhh, Oh, yeah! That's fucking amazing. Squeeze your tits while I fuck your face."

Out of shock or simply self-punishment, I watched as Misty stroked her brother's unit until he finished down her throat. They had crossed a line. But at least it was just a blow job. Richie Armstrong's smug tone buzzed with static as he instructed her, "Don't drink anything for the rest of the day, I want my cum to be the last thing you taste before dinner."

"You're so bad," Misty giggled in the background, clearly not actually upset by her brother's assertiveness. My heart split in two. Even if I managed to find a cure for her, would she ever be the same?

"I'm sorry," I whispered, crouching down behind one of the lab booths. I waited until I heard them slip into the hallway a few minutes later, and reflected on what I'd just seen.

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That night at dinner, I tried not to think about what could be happening at the Armstrong household as I stomached down my teriyaki chicken and broccoli. In my room, I found numerous notifications on my laptop from Brent's house. Not that I needed any more dirt on Brent, but I was a bit disappointed that none of the motion detected was due to any illicit rendezvous involving Mrs. Young. Mr. Young evidently had enjoyed the day off, since he spent many of the hours with his ass on the sofa in the master bedroom, reading. By 11:15PM, both husband and wife had settled in for the evening and appeared to be asleep. I had seen this show before. Within the hour, Mrs. Young would pull away the sheets and carefully slip out of her marital bed clad only in a flimsy nightie, not to return to the room till just before sunrise. At nearly 12:00AM on the dot, I watched the blonde MILF wiggle out from under her husband's outstretched arm and scamper toward the door.

"Uh-oh," I muttered to myself, noticing Mr. Young stir. The oaf turned his head in the direction of his unfaithful wife. The audio on the camera was awful since it was mounted outside. At first, it looked like Mr. Young was just asking where his wife was off to in the middle of the night, followed by his ushering her back to bed. But within minutes, Mrs. Young unwisely made another attempt to escape. When Mr. Young confronted her this time, he was clearly more frustrated, and confused. When she reluctantly slid back into bed, Mr. Young turned over and spooned her, keeping his arms locked securely around her stomach. Brent was going to be in a shit mood tomorrow.

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"Hey, bud," my grampa greeted. "How'd the confidence booster help?"

I decided my only recourse for saving Misty was to visit my grandparents' shop before school. It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. The tiny confidence vial was still bouncing around somewhere in my backpack.

"It went great. She said she'd go to a movie with me," I lied.

"Fantastic! See, you don't need strong magic to succeed, it's all in here." He pointed to his heart.

"That's actually why I'm here. I was hoping to get another dose for my date," I improvised, hoping that he might need to check the back again.

My grandpa chuckled. "Between you and me, I understand. But you don't need it. I promise you."

"Please... It's the last time I'll ask."

His eyes softened and he nodded. I watched as the old Japanese man trot off to one of the back rooms. Waiting exactly ten seconds, I snatched the keys from his desk. It's a good thing too, since the room labeled, "Strong: Not for Sale" was locked. Flicking through the keys, it took me precious seconds to pick the right one. Once inside, I gravitated toward the spot of the love potion. All the vials were labeled poison, and there were seven that matched what I gave Brent. I searched for an antivenom, a nullifier, anything resembling a cure for what I had unleashed.

I shook my head scanning all the descriptions. One caught my eye, not because it could change Misty, but because it could stop her brother from laying his filthy hands on her. "For a sleep so deep, no dreams will keep."

I nabbed the vial and tucked it into my back pocket. I was not as lucky as the other day, bumping into my grandpa just as I finished relocking the door.

"What are you doing?" he asked, holding another vial of confidence.

I swallowed. The keys were clenched in my hand.

"Um, I thought you might need your keys, so I was bringing them to you," I submitted, handing him the set.

"Hmm." He looked at me skeptically. "Well, I appreciate you trying to help, but you know your grandma would have a fit if she knew I let you back here alone." He shooed me back to the front of the store before handing me the second little vial.

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As much as I wanted to hold out hope that Misty hadn't slept with her brother, it was clear that the boundaries between them had crumbled. Gone were the casual hoodie, boots, and sunglasses of her hipster wardrobe. Today, she sported a snug, white t-shirt with a pair of uber-short denim jeans. Most concerning to me, though, was what she'd done to her hair. The long brunette tresses that normally fell freely down her shoulders had been pitched up into a set of girly high pigtails usually reserved for school cheerleaders. She was nearly unrecognizable as she clung to her brother's arm and giggled at his stupid insights.