Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.
You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.
Click here
"Sex?" Judith pressed in a hiss of a voice, and Calla closed her eyes.
"Yeah," she answered quietly, knowing that although Judith might know of her mother's spell, the fact that she was finally this involved with someone would lessen her suspicion about the magic problem. She was right.
"Well, that will do it, dear," Judith answered. "Sex will either heighten magic or distance it from you when you're new to either and heavily distracted by it. Better to have it weaken for a bit than find it strong enough that you're hard-pressed to control it. But you've no knowledge of where your mother is, I take it?" she asked, back to her original train of thought.
"No, Judith, but I'll let you know if I hear from her."
A pause came, and then the woman answered her, "Yes, you do that. And tell her to call me, too, if you hear from her."
Calla listened to Judith hang up then, but she'd heard it in the witch's voice that she didn't expect her mother would surface again. Calla didn't expect it either if she was this absent from her own lines of communication as well as the coven's, and not to be found at home. Her mother was gone.
She walked back into her office in something of a daze, not sure whether to feel grief-stricken or relieved. This meant the killings were over, for good and with no more rampages to come, and that her mother couldn't do anymore damage than she already had. It also meant Calla was on her own.
* * * * *
All day, Dean had promised himself that he'd cool it with Calla. He'd told himself that he was disappearing the next day, and that they'd had more than enough sex. That he was already too attached to the feelings she brought up in him, and that resisting her charms was for the best, all thing considered. Already, he was into things far enough that walking away was going to be difficult on both of them. Sure, they were both telling each other that life was too complicated, for each of them, for them to commit to anything... but even he was starting to have a hard time remembering the fact for what it was.
When she walked in, though, her face pale and her manner somehow subdued, most of the reasoning left him behind.
"You okay?" he asked, running one of his hands over her back as she stepped into him and allowed herself to fall into a hug.
"Yeah..." she said into his chest. "I'm just... it was a rough day," she said simply.
Dean held her tighter, grimacing. He could hear it in her voice, that she knew about her mother.
"Listen," Calla said, looking up at him suddenly, "I don't want our night to get ruined by my day, okay, Dean? I just want to be with you and forget about everything."
"If you need to talk..."
"No," Calla shook her head, blinking her eyes hard. She was determined that her mother wouldn't ruin tonight -- not when Dean had to leave the next day, and who knew when she'd see him again.
Dean watched her push down her emotions, forcing a smile to her face, and couldn't help smiling back at her. It was hard not to feel guilty about the relief he felt, that she didn't want to tell him what the problem was, but he managed well enough. "I picked dinner up," he said in place of anything that could press her to open up, and nodded toward the kitchen like this was a normal action, and a normal night. So why was he feeling nervous?
Over dinner, Dean outdid himself with bad jokes, over-full glasses of wine, and flirtatious grins. He filled every moment of silence or doubt, from either of them, knowing he was drowning his own nerves and self-loathing just like he was distracting her from the pain and fear that he knew she had to be struggling through. She couldn't tell him about her magic or her mother, perhaps, and he couldn't tell her what he knew, but that didn't change anything. He was well aware that her magic was being suffocated by the powder in her system, and that the night's dose would finish off the process, just as he knew that she wouldn't be speaking to her mother again.
When Calla excused herself after dinner to shower and 'clean up', Dean distracted himself by cleaning up the kitchen and pouring another glass from the second bottle of wine they'd opened. Calla had gotten more and more relaxed, and more and more flirtatious over the course of the night, as if she was desperate to drown worries not just in the wine, but in his presence. He was fighting the inclination to do the same, but doing it anyway.
Drying her hair, Calla examined herself in the mirror, wondering how old she looked, objectively. Did Dean think she was too young and inexperienced for him? He'd said he didn't, but she couldn't help thinking that he was holding back. She couldn't even say, this far into the night, whether she felt like he was holding back emotionally or physically, or both, but it felt like he was holding back. More than anything, she didn't want to still feel like that when he left the next day. If she wasn't going to see him again, she at least wanted to know that he'd been himself with her, and that she'd been as much herself as possible -- without telling him more than she already had, at least. And weak as her magic was... well, if it didn't come back, she knew what that meant, too, and that there might not be a next time. She didn't want regrets following her if Dean left the next day and she didn't get to see him again.
With this in mind, she hurried to finish drying her hair, applying perfume and lip gloss after she did, and then slipping into the bedroom to dress once again. After only a moment of doubt, she pulled on the button-down that Dean had discarded at her desk the night before, leaving her body nude beneath it and just buttoning it halfway. He liked her curves, he kept saying, so here he'd have them.
When she stepped out of the hall to find him just exiting the kitchen area, drying his hands with a paper towel, she couldn't help grinning at the desire she saw flaring up in his eyes. Buzzed enough to be brave, she held him at arm's length when he approached and stared straight into his eyes. "Do me a favor, Dean?" she asked.
"Anything," he answered.
"Stop holding back," she told him, letting one of her hands trail down his arm, and then up again, wandering. "Whatever you want to do with me, whatever you're thinking right now, I want you to do it."
Dean breathed in, staring down at her. Calla was practically dripping desire, and it suddenly occurred to him that he didn't want to leave anything undone, any stone unturned.
"You trust me?" he asked, gripping his hands into his own shirt and pulling her closer in so that she had to crane her neck up to look into his eyes, but she held the contact.
"Completely," she said.
Dean pushed down his own doubts and tugged her toward the bedroom then. Without hesitation, he stripped his shirt from her body and left her naked, standing before him, and then he took a step back and away from her so he could better see all of her. He could see her fighting the urge to raise her hands and cover herself, self-consciously, but she left her arms by her sides and kept her gaze on his face as he swept his eyes up and down, over her curves.
Calla finally broke from where she'd been standing and stepped toward Dean, but he held her hands still when she reached for his belt.
"You're mine tonight?" he asked her seriously, squeezing her hands more tightly and watching her take a deep breath in response.
Instead of answering, Calla leaned up on her tip-toes, reaching for Dean and leaning into him. More than ever, she wanted him to know he didn't have to hold back with her, no matter how many times she had to say it or how many walls she had to push through to get his attention. "For whatever you want," she told him honestly, and then she shivered in response when he whispered into her ear that she should just tell him if she changed her mind. She wouldn't, though she didn't know what he had in store for her.
Dean stepped her backward to her bed, guiding her back until she was laying before him and he could play his hands along her sides, up and down her body. When he stripped off his own t-shirt and leaned into her, he breathed in the gasp she let out when her hard nipples brushed his chest, and then he let himself kiss her deeply and run his lips down along her neck before he told her to stay still, allowing his voice to come out in a command, knowing she wouldn't argue with him. She didn't.
Calla stayed statue-still, lying on the bed and watching as Dean rose and stepped away, back to that backpack he'd carried in the night before. She shivered under his gaze, but raised her arms for him when he came to her side with that scarf again, and also another, and caressed each of her wrists before tying them separately to the headboard. And then, before she knew it, he'd lit some candles he'd set on the bedside table, and then he'd left the room.
In her empty bedroom, Calla blinked, licking her lips and wondering for just a moment if he was going to leave her apartment and just leave her like this, stripped and tied to her bed. He wouldn't, she knew, but he'd left so abruptly...
When he came back moments later, he had one hand behind his back, and the look of him took her breath away. She'd fallen in love with the angles of his face, and the shadow of a day's growth of hair on his chin and his jaw made her want to beg him to run that roughness along her skin, until she begged for far more, and his bare chest and the plains of his abdomen sent a spike of lust running through her that she couldn't ignore. She could already see the bulge of his dick within his jeans, and shivered with the memory of what it had done to her the night before. She'd do anything for this man, she thought to herself, if he'd just love her in return -- there was no choice involved anymore, she was so addicted to his presence.
Despite herself, she tugged at the scarves holding her to the bed, her shoulders twisting with the effort even as she saw Dean grin in response to her movements.
"You change your mind already?" he joked as he moved toward her, that hand still held behind his back.
Calla shook her head, watching him. "No... but I think you should take off your jeans," she purred up at him as he came to stand beside the bed. She knew her look was as hungry as his, and she broke her eyes away from his gaze to look straight at the circle at the front of his jeans, where a pressing bulge betrayed the fact that he was already desperate for her.
Instead of answering her, Dean sank down onto his knees beside the bed and traced one of his fingers up from her navel to her neck, enjoying the tremble of response that followed his touch. "You ever heard of fire and ice?" he asked her.
Calla blinked at him, distracted from her desire for a moment. "The fantasy series?" she asked.
Dean grinned. "Not quite," he told her, and then watched her eyes widen as he brought his fingers up with an ice cube, and held her hip still with one hand as he began running it along her abdomen, watching her eyes as he circled it up, around her breasts, nearing her nipples and then raising it to bring it up to her neck. She was shivering beneath him, her back arched, when he ran it back down along her collarbone and then brought it up and let it drip onto her nipples so that she gasped.
"Dean," Calla breathed, clenching her eyes shut with the cold. When she opened them again, Dean had raised the ice cube again and was trailing it along her arm so that it stung just as it passed, with the pressure of the freezing cold, and then just drew her attention to each passing of his hand, and the ice, and her bare skin under his gaze as it swept on, leaving cool moisture in its wake.
Dean leaned forward and breathed on the trail of moisture he was leaving with the ice, passing the ice and then his breath over her collarbone and then over her abdomen, and then over her hips and down along her thighs, exploring her body with the ice cube and with his breath even as his other hand steadied her on the bed and rocked with each shiver that wrung through her body. He wanted to drive her crazy, and he wanted her to never forget this.
The cube almost melted from between his fingers, he pressed what was left of it between his fingers and ran them down over her mound and between her legs as he enveloped her mouth in a kiss, sucking in the gasping whimpers she let out as he let the ice melt between the space of her most private flesh and his fingers, that then slipped into her once the ice was melted, cold and rough as they slipped into her warmth, pressing and wet and searching into her slit that was already soaked with desire.
When the trembling had stopped, he reached sideways for a candle that had been burning beside them. Holding her gaze with his, he began at her feet, holding her foot with one hand as he dripped wax upon her calf, and then on her thigh, careful to only let a single drop or two come down at any one moment when he tilted the candle. He didn't want to burn her, but he wanted her to feel the heat of it. She had her eyes closed now, breathing heavily with desire, and Dean watched her skin tremble beneath his hand as he smoothed the wax into her skin each time he let a droplet fall, hearing her breathe deeply. She was whimpering with desire, moaning each time his hand pressed hard into her skin, and as he let a drop of wax fall near her belly button, her shuddering practically shook the bed.
He took up another ice cube then, using his forearms to hold her steady as he played with her body, enjoying each tremble and whimper that shook her breasts, leaving her wetter and more breathless with practically every move he made. He wanted to torture her with pleasure, and confusing her nerves between the heat and the cold, the pleasure and the pain, was addictive.
He bit his lip against the desire he was fighting to hold back and slipped two of his fingers into her, thrusting back and forth for a minute so that she opened her eyes and held his gaze. She was soaking wet, wanting him, and his dick was harder even than it had been the night before, so demanding that it was near on painful, demanding her.
Calla let her head fall back, releasing a loud moan as Dean let wax drip along the side of her breast before he spread it up toward her nipple with his fingers. She arched her back, pressing her shoulders into the bed and mewling out words that even she didn't understand. She wanted him inside of her. Another drop of wax on her collar bone came as his lips came down on her neck and he pinched one of her nipples with freezing cold fingers so that she moaned beneath him; she couldn't think in words anymore.
When he finally set the candle aside and climbed on top of her, she wasn't even sure now when he'd removed his jeans or put on a condom, or how long they'd been in the bedroom so that he could play with her body as he had, whether it had been twenty minutes or three hours. She was dripping with heat and desire, and when he lunged into her in one pressing push, her hips met his and she yelled into his neck with pleasure, cumming almost immediately as his hard dick pressed fully into her and held there so that she was hearing herself whimper in pleasure.
Dean pressed in harder, as deep a their bodies would allow, relishing the tightness of her as she yelled his name into his chest, and then he wrapped his arms around her as he pistoned in and out before exploding inside of her, grunting with the effort and the release of it, and feeling just as helpless to the desire as she was beneath him.
"God, Dean," Calla whispered, whimpering as she let herself press herself up against him, spent with desire and yet still wanting more.
"Yeah," he answered, trailing his lips along her forehead as he reached up with one of his hands to release her wrists so that she could bring her arms down, wrapping her hands around his biceps and gripping him even as he pressed himself upward so that he could take some of his weight from her chest, and just watch her. "You good?" he asked her, examining her face for any hint that she regretted what she'd let him do, or was feeling anything other than pleasure. He hadn't meant to push her so far tonight -- much earlier, he hadn't even meant to bring her back to bed, in fact -- let alone allow himself to keep her at the edge of orgasm for so long, and then pound into her body like he knew he had. He hadn't meant to let himself lose control like he had.
"I'm good... sir," she told him, the word slipping from her lips on a whim as she craned upward to kiss him, pulling his lower lip between her lips and trailing her left hand's fingers along his shoulder. She'd seen the flare in his eyes when she called him that, felt his dick jump inside her in response, and she knew the instinct she felt, to want to be possessed by him, was everything for her at the moment.
"Fuck, you don't know what you're doing to me," he groaned, pressing harder into her so that she gasped.
In a moment, he slipped from her, and she watched in a daze as he traded the full condom he'd worn for a new one, and then turned back to her. He landed on top of her, his hands reaching beneath her to grip her ass, hard, and pull her against him so that his dick was nudging her slit. "Say it again," he whispered gruffly, his eyes on hers.
"Sir?" she gasped, relishing his grip on her as he began pulling her into him.
He groaned, letting his nails dig into her full ass as his eyes stayed on hers, relishing the submission there. He lunged into her then, thinking again that he hadn't meant to lose control, and that it was too late.
Calla screamed out with the pressure of him filling her, holding onto his shoulders as he thrust into her, again and again, wringing another orgasm from her so that she gasped his name, and panted for breath as he came inside of her again, his weight holding her still to the bed.
It took moments before she had her breath back, and before she felt Dean resting up on his elbows, taking some of his weight from her chest. Calla took in a breath and opened her eyes against Dean's, expecting to see more lust, or maybe tiredness, but what she saw made her breathe in, hesitating. If she hadn't known better, she would have called it despair, what she'd seen there for just a minute. She let her fingers grip his bicep when it seemed for a moment like he was going to pull away. "What are you thinking?"
Dean shook his head, fighting to bring himself back to the moment. "Nothing," he told her, lying as he leaned down to kiss her again, pressing his dick into her and pushing himself to distract her from whatever she'd just seen in his face.
He knew he'd be breaking her heart tomorrow, and that he couldn't avoid it, but he didn't want to do it tonight.
* * * * *
When 10 AM came, Dean's throat was in his gut.
Sammy had told him they could just cut town and pretend the week had never happened, and he'd been open about pushing the option, but Dean couldn't do it. The feelings Calla had brought up in him were real, and maybe he'd been playing her at first, pushing for affection so that he could get in and get information, but what he felt now wasn't fake. He'd only ever felt this guilty when lying to Sam or to Bobby, or in the breakdown of what had happened with Lisa and Ben, but in reaction to a case, this was all new. He wasn't sure if, or when, he'd ever felt like such scum, and the idea of coming clean with Calla was killing him... but he couldn't jut disappear on her either.
At five minutes past 10, Sam rang the buzzer, and Dean looked up to meet Calla's gaze as she walked from the hall, and then he turned to the door. When he let Sammy in, he simply stepped aside so his brother could enter, nodding in greeting before he turned back to face Calla, who was standing frozen in the hall, blinking in confusion.
