Red and Redhead Ch. 01

I shook myself and my body reformed over me slowly, as if my skin had to wake up too. No sooner than I had regained my form than Sarah, our busty little witch, sauntered into the room. Time doesn't exist in that room, so it could have been noon or night. Either way, she wasn't dressed in her typical attire, but instead more done-up; carefully applied makeup, her long hair teased and styled, clicking her way to the pentagram in medium heels and a black dress that struggled to preserve her modesty.

Business-like today, she snapped her fingers and didn't even look up as I appeared in familiar form across her. The nerve of some people.

"Good morning to you too," I rumbled.

"Oh shush, don't get sassy with me," she threw back, searching for something in her book. She hadn't noticed the smudged rune from last night, too engrossed in her witchcraft textbook.

Normally I would've been annoyed, or cross, or terse, or any other synonym for being vaguely pissed off but still having to accept it.

Today, however, I had regained a sliver of my power, however infinitesimally small. I could use it to guide my way to freedom. I allowed myself a crooked smile, illicit and mischievous. It was time to play.

She always carried with her not only her textbook, which she carried into the pentagram before calling me down, but also a number of other notebooks that she left on a side table far from the precisely painted summoning floor. One notebook she used for our talks, but the others? A mystery, at least to me.

One in particular was precariously perched atop the others; it would take very little to tip it. I glanced down at Sarah. She was talking to herself, flipping back and forth through yellowing pages to find some obscure line, I'm sure. God knows for what, and frankly I didn't much care at the moment.

I refocused my attention on the top book. I pursed my lips as one might to whistle and blew gently. The book didn't move. My brows furrowed gently and I breathed in deeper, and blew again, harder this time. The light cover lifted up, carrying the next few pages with it, but fell closed again.

One more time. Breathe. And blow hard.

The book toppled over, laying open to the room. I looked down at the redheaded witch, who only glanced over and sighed, blaming the fault on herself. Were her runes intact, she would have nothing to worry about. My mind would be locked in the pentagram, not free to roam in wandering perception outside my body.

And yet, today, not so.

I stretched my mind and sent a piece drifting over to the now-open book, while instructing my body to blow gently. The pages slowly turned until I was at the front. A few sketches adorned the empty front page, but otherwise little else. I kept an eye on Sarah as I perused her sketchbook at my leisure.

Her drawings were good, actually. The first few pages not particularly insightful, but there were birds and flowers and those sorts of things, in rough pencil and occasionally pen, just small studies of life outside. I was impressed, although not intrigued.

Not until later pages, I should say.

Slowly she transitioned into rough human forms, circles and lines and the like, clearly still learning the art. But with each page, the bodies became more refined, more human, slowly picking up character and expression and detail. I kept flipping as my body watched her scribbling a few notes into a journal.

Skimming through her notebook with my directed breath and detached mind, perceiving from a distance, something caught my attention. I stopped breathing and directed the air to the other side of the book, flipping backwards.

And there I found a tall, reddish form, sporting roughly hewn lines of white down his chest. No face, little detail, simply a test. I paused at that before flipping forward again. Interspersed with her other drawings were slowly improving sketches of my familiar form. At first they were just standing or sitting, apparently having converted model poses into my image rather than opt for a more original approach, she sketched me nonetheless. And there, more complexity. Gesturing, posture. Posing with a cigarette, lighting one. A few of my emotional states: annoyed, angry, thoughtful, joking. Then a couple pages were torn out, but after them, a completed product, a very finished portrait of yours truly, in all my muscular splendor.

I pulled my split conscience back into my mind and became whole once more. I was duly impressed, both in my investigative abilities and in her art skill. She hadn't told me about that. Maybe she was too shy. I cocked my head at her questioningly, and she looked up.

"Ok you ready? This one is gonna hurt a bit."

A bit, my fucking ass. Turns out she decided to send me shooting over to her University to deliver an early draft of her paper so far, but, having long before heard of my tendency to exploit poorly worded orders, fashioned a pipeline of sorts to shoot me there and drag me back once her advisor had finished his commentary. If you want to imagine it, you know those Chinese finger traps? Imagine that, but on your entire body, and lined with razors. When I returned I didn't speak to her, only sat awaiting my dismissal.

I had had it with her. I had been in constant servitude for three months, and never let outside or to roam with any semblance of freedom. I was kept indoors under careful lock and key. I decided to get her back for this. She'd learn.

Sarah came into the room another day, dropping her books on the table. She waved away my respectful greeting and told me to get my chair, herself dragging a stool into her circle before sitting down, waiting for me to join her across the way. A strange partnership we had, in a way, that we shared so freely about ourselves and yet were always physically distant.

I mused on this passively while she began to detail her grievances against some guy in some class she was taking, maybe literature, I don't recall. I let my mind wander onto her sketchbook and carefully flipped it open with some maneuvered breathing, skipping through the pages I had already seen while Sarah gestured wildly and stomped her feet emphatically. So cute, that little one. Shame she'd have to go.

The whisper and rasp of pages on pages was covered by the witch's voice. And there we were, where I had last stopped: the portrait. It was still good, I was pleased with her portrayal of me. Then I flipped farther. Still more detail, more detail....

And slowly the mood of the sketches changed. From light-hearted caricature to moody detail. Features more pronounced, darker setting. I went from a joking interviewee to a witching hour alleyway lurker. Another page turn, and she was in the picture too, the two of us standing under a parking lot lamppost. More pages, and more.

With each page, I grew taller and more intimidating, filling half of the page, and she grew more diminutive somehow without shrinking. My breeches became torn and tight in her renderings, and her clothes gathered mud and grunge. Sarah's self-portrait was buckling with curves, just as she was, her tits pressed together tightly and her hips swaying alluringly even in a drawing. Just the same, I slowly lost clothing, first to human boxers, then shielded by nature. Sarah drew self portraits showing her on her knees, breasts pushed outward, tongue out, face begging. Pictures of me from a low angle. A three panel drawing of her in her room, me walking in, and pinning her to the wall. Semi-nudes of herself. A self-portrait with a dark red hand wrapped around her throat.

Had she said something to me? I snapped back to her conversation, but she was just taking a breath before launching back into her talk. I returned my attention to the book.

I turned one final page.

There I was, once more rendered in excellent detail, muscles rippling and color filling the page, the glow of my markings more pronounced, leading down and down to the most arresting detail of the drawing.

She had drawn me completely nude. Unapologetically so. Nothing was hidden. Below my abs and hanging between strong thighs was a thick, long, veiny cock. On a passing guess, comparing it to my legs, she guessed that my cock was nearly a foot long, and as thick as my wrist. She had spent time on it, pencils in hand, pale skin flushed as she worked to detail every little vein and shadow, rendering my body completely, but clearly for one sole purpose.

The pages flipped and that purpose became clear. There she was, in every drawing now, face contorted, gasping, moaning, her pale body contrasted against my demonic one as, in her fantasies, I filled her completely, fucking her to the point of no return, her soft curves bouncing and slapping against my hard lines as she rocked back and forth on my cock, or struggled to suck it down her throat, or as I stuffed her ass, as she showed very explicitly in one delightful multi-panel comic.

I ran through every drawing and then slowly closed the book just as she was finishing up her rant. I offered advice based on what little I had heard and she seemed placated by even that, locking me up before heading to bed. I watched the stark white room, thinking and thinking of what to do next, and how much fun it would be.