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“See? You didn’t want to know.”
Juliette prims up her mouth. “Just… go on and do the spell.”
“I will, after they’re baked. I have to compose the right wording.”
“You use poems every time, but with different words and rhythms,” she comments.
“Elvish magic is built upon rhythm and cadence,” I explain. “The limerick is the simplest spell form, and the most widely used, but Elves with greater power use more complex rhythms for extended or complicated spellwork. Rhyme is important, too—the pairing of sounds.”
“And what will this spell do?”
“It will target the King directly. Anyone else will be able to sample the cupcakes with no effect, but with him, they will produce a kind of delirium, a waking dream. He will believe that he’s having the best sex of his life with you. Meanwhile, you can stand aside and watch him writhe in ecstasy on the bed. You won’t need to be involved at all.”
“And tomorrow he’ll believe that he slept with me?”
“Yes. The details will be a little blurred, but he’ll have that memory.”
“I see what you mean, about this being a similar spell to the one for the fennisley.”
“Far less potent and harmful than the other,” I reply. “Any spell meant to produce death or harm requires much more energy and a more forceful rhyme and rhythm. It’s the goddess’s way of curbing magical power.”
“But you can do it,” Juliette says. “Even as a Half-Elf?”
“You’re doubting me now?”
“No.” She flushes. “Just wanted to be sure.”
The thing is, I’m not sure. I think I can do this, but I’ve never worked anything that malevolent before. I’ve heard Elves talk about the toll it takes when one attempts malicious, lethal magic, but I have no first-hand experience, no way of knowing exactly how much the act of casting the spell will drain me.
“I can do it,” I say with forced confidence.
“Of course you can. I’m sorry I said that… I know you’re sensitive about the…” She winces, bites her lip.
“About being a Half-Elf?”
She nods. “If I ever say anything that hurts you, please tell me. I don’t have much experience interacting with Elves of any kind, much less Half-Elves, and I don’t want to be insensitive. You shouldn’t have to teach me how to avoid hurting your feelings, but I don’t know who else to ask, and I’m sorry in advance if I say anything thoughtless—I’ll try not to. I’ll do my best to think it through and imagine how I would feel in your situation—”
“Stop.” I catch her hands, a smile softening my worry. She’s so fucking cute and sweet. “I’m tough, alright? I can handle it. I’ve been dealing with what I am for years.”
“What you are is wonderful,” she says stoutly. “No one should ever think anything different.”
“I’m flattered. Now we should get these in to bake, yes?”
“Yes! And then I need to make the frosting.”
Once the cupcakes are safely in the oven, she whips up a batch of frosting. She tests it, sticking a spoon in and licking the frothy white sweetness with her pretty pink tongue, which drives me mad. I pluck the spoon from her mouth and replace it with my own lips and tongue. Juliette gives a startled little giggle of surprise which melts into a moan as I cup her firmly between the legs, kneading my palm and the heel of my hand against her sex.
I lick the sugar from the inside of her mouth, then break the kiss to whisper, “Get on the table, sweetheart.”
14
I’m lying naked on the kitchen table in the House of Bounty, while Rupert paints the globes of my breasts and the triangle of my pussy with frosting. I’ll have to make another batch, but I don’t mind—this is worth it.
There’s an element of danger in what we’re doing. When he fucked me over the table, it was quick, and we both had our clothes on. If anyone tried to get in, we could have quickly rearranged our clothing and unbarred the door.
But we’ve let it go much too far this time. I’m a naked human cupcake, and if anyone comes to the door while Rupert is enjoying me, there’s no way I could clean up and get dressed fast enough to avoid suspicion. We are risking actual harm, maybe even death, and I must be far more twisted than I ever realized, because the danger isn’t stealing my sexual appetite—it’s making me wetter. I can feel the slickness between my parted thighs, my arousal mingling with the frosting as Rupert daubs the lips of my pussy with creamy, sugary white.
I’m breaking more than just the King’s rules—I’m breaking my own rules of kitchen hygiene. That bothers me more than the risk of discovery, if I’m honest. But I swear to myself we’ll clean everything up.
