The Deal <Magic, mind control, demons, size, other specific tags on chapters>

Story by Dawn_arcadian

Greetings everyone! Thanks for taking the time to read my first major story post on FP. I have been enjoying (lurking) these message boards for quite awhile now, and thought it was time to put some effort into giving back to (turning on) all the talented people here.

Anyways, this story got its start as a fantastic roleplay scenario with the lovely and talented Symbio, who was an exceptional muse and partner. Like most source materials I am going to draw very heavily from the original, but some names will change (partly because I don't have records and forgot them) and not all the situations and interactions will play out quite the same way.

Thanks go out to Symbio of course! <3 Beyond that the astute might notice influences of Gaiman's mythology and Butcher's Magic theory in my writing, and if it's presumptuous to cite literary giants like that as influences, tough. This is MY story, darn it. ^_^

A Friday night on campus had a sort of savage rhythm all of its own, an atavistic beat that could be felt in the chest almost as easily as sensed from the ears and eyes; a hormonal tide-surge of gathering tension and loosening inhibitions.

The cheap, oft-repainted window pane of Jacqueline’s dorm room hummed slightly, tremored by the nearly subaudable base beat of some nearby party, a cricket-like night nose to replace all of the usual evening dwellers driven away by the tribe of adolescent apes that now ruled in their long ago vacated haunts.

For a moment, the young woman on the floor of the small room felt her legs tighten; a bunching of the smooth muscles of her bare upper thighs, a quickening in the femoral pulse running from groin to inner knee. Those were her tribal drums; the summons to dance and drink and mate, ancient patterns written in the deep places of her brain, calls to community and safety, but those things were far from her mind tonight.. well, the first, at least. Safety, on the other hand, was very much at the front of her thoughts, pushing back the distractions in the businesslike, efficient way that so few other mental topics seem to muster.

One soft fingertip resting against the book beside her, Jacqueline leaned over to once more trace the circle on the floor with her eyes. The tilt of her supple, toned torso allowed the loose robe she wore to fall open, shadows from the ill lit room spilling down her swaying breasts, her smoothly tanned skin darkened in the candlelight. Unconsciously she tucked a hand across her waist, gathering the silk robe up against her navel, keeping it from dragging on the floor on front of her. The book said that even the slightest imperfection in the circle could be disastrous, although she had not bothered to translate all of the no doubt lurid detail that the long ago author had felt justified in going into as to just how disastrous it would likely prove to be. Her workman like knowledge of Aramaic had allowed her to skim “vessel of abomination” and “reaped like grain” from the text, and the lump of fear in her chest had lent its weight to the decision that the rest was likely just more warnings from the same road sign.

Jacqueline could not, even if you asked her, explain to you just what had drawn her to magic. At 20, such introspection was still years in the future and miles of experience abstracted from her present situation. nosce te ipsum was a maxim for others less attractive and popular then she, and the mystery and power promised by the books she had found was more than enough to justify her selfish infatuation. A psychologist might have pointed to a rebellion of sorts, the wings of a gifted mind beating against the gilded cage that a life of being beautiful and privileged had quietly built around her. And Jacqueline WAS beautiful, her blonde hair drawn back in a silky ponytail, lightly touching against the nape of her smoothly graceful neck. The robe she wore was more for a sense of bemused theatrics then any actual function, the dark blue silk hugged curves that had earned her a steady progression of men that only cared for that sort of thing, and more than a few female enemies that only cared for men who cared for such things. E cup breasts swelled in youthful firmness, the sheer fabric sliding like flowing water over a pair of fingertip-sized nipples, turgid and sensitive against the slight chill in the old dorm room.

Jackie shivered, crossing her arms under her lush tits, her green eyes scanning the ancient book by her side, referencing against the English notes scattered around its leather bound bulk. She had discovered quite by accident a talent with languages and the bulk of the translations were in her own rushed handwriting, instructions for calling up and binding a creature from hell. She had decided, in a flash of bemused and uncharacteristic prudence, to start with something small. The book listed a lavacious menagerie of “

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