The Dresden Fucks

Molly Carpenter had no right to be as gorgeous as she was, not when she’d just turned eighteen. Harry remembered being eighteen. He’d been gawky and far too tall and way too oblivious to be as bright as everyone told him he was. Molly was… not that. 

Even if she’d passed the goth thing by… Well, in a way that made it worse. With a more subtle look, her natural beauty shone through, and it was only compounded by the hints of the exotic that she maintained. The little nose ring. The barbell studs in her nipples, and she neither needed to nor bothered with wearing a bra most of the time. Her tattoos she similarly showed off, pressing through her collection of spaghetti-strapped tanktops exactly like her erect nipples did, only with black ink between her fair skin and thin fabric. Not to mention the tight jeans, at the thighs straining to frayed threads of denim along her toned thighs.

Harry knew Molly had had a crush on him, but he doubted it was the kind of thing that could last. He was grouchy, scruffy, the kind of guy who never talked about his feelings except to mumble darkly when he was angry or make Scooby-Doo noises when he was confused. He was sure Molly was over him. But she had just turned eighteen, and maybe she was under the impression that, now that she was legal, he might’ve changed his mind about teaching her the birds and the bees as well as witchcraft and wizardry.

Not that Harry would ever do that. Obviously, Molly was a pretty irresistible woman, girl, with her blonde hair dyed blue as it traipsed down her shoulders but still a shiny gold at the crown of her head, and the big round breasts that billowed against every top she wore, and the wide, voluptuous ass that filled out the back of her shorts. She always seemed to be showing that off with the tightness of the pants she wore, like she was challenging him to find her panty line. Judging by the thongs that had colonized the laundry room since she’d moved in, that was a sucker’s bet. 

Yes, she was a definite tease, but Harry couldn’t figure out if she was only that way with him or if she did it with everybody. He also couldn’t figure out what color her pubic hair was—if she had the golden muff she’d been born with or if maybe she’d dyed it like the hair on her head or if she’d shaved it altogether. Questions like that abounded when Molly flounced around, showing off her body and laughing at his jokes. He knew her mother, Charity, had once been a wild child, and he had to wonder if Molly was the same way. How she fucked, if she was submissive or assertive, just how responsive she would be to his touches and kisses and the motion of his cock inside her. Sometimes, Bob the Skull was entirely redundant to Harry’s own mental processes.

Today, Harry had sent Molly on a supply run to the Wicca store, which given the distance, the shopping list, and Chicago’s bus schedule, should keep her out of his hair for an hour or two. That didn’t offer any respite from the temptation of her barely legal body packed cheek to jowl with him, clearly his for the asking, with Molly’s big blue eyes showing a constant curiosity for what it would be like if he asked. She would be coming back, after all—maybe licking an ice cream cone or eating a corndog in one bite. But Harry knew what would help him.

He went to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes and standing in the shower stall without turning on the water. It felt a little hinky, but he was used to it. Only a sadist could get off on the cold water that his shower doused with. He had a few skin magazines that he hadn’t yet fed to Bob which could’ve been adapted for this contingency, but Harry couldn’t bother with those at the moment. Living with Molly had frayed his morals just a little too much for that. 

Instead, he remembered how she looked coming out of the shower, wrapped in a towel that seemed engineered by NASA to cover everything interesting while making it even more interesting. The way she tied it kept it high on her ass, showing off the lowermost curve of her generous buttocks, while it also slipped down the slopes of her breasts, displaying the generous expanses of cleavage she had to offer long before her nipples were out in the open. And that was to say nothing of her long, slender legs, her tawny arms, or the wet hair cascading down her supple shoulders, that curious intimacy of a woman at ease with her surroundings which made her seem like a lover in all but name.

It took an effort of will—of actual, spell-slinging will—not to get a hard-on when he saw Molly in the morning like that. Thinking of it now, Harry didn’t have to try to get hard, it just happened. He put aside the thought that after he was done, he’d have to douse himself with freezing water to wash the evidence away from both himself and the shower. 

Instead, he focused entirely on remembering every detail of that slipping, sliding towel which Molly was so careless about keeping wrapped around her lithe body. Every pump his fist made up and down his lengthy shaft seemed to make his recall better. He felt a nonsense conviction that if he remembered hard enough, somehow he would be able to know what Molly looked like with the towel falling off her entirely…

Then he heard laughter.

It was not, thank God, Molly. It was almost as bad, though. Karrin Murphy was in his bathroom. For once, her serious expression was leavened with amusement, which only made her look more like some plucky, mischievous cheerleader—maybe tittering at some dumb jokes of his, ready to say ‘You’re so funny!’ and touch his chest… not that he’d spent a lot of time thinking about cheerleaders back when he was in high school, or now, or when he found that cheerleading outfit in Molly’s laundry. 

Petite as she was, Murphy had more than enough curves for her Chicago PD T-shirt to hold tightly to, while her frayed jeans made what little there was of her legs look very nice indeed. Harry was almost tempted to keep going—he felt a crazy fit of ‘inspiration’ at the sight of Murphy, and the wide-eyed stare she favored his manhood with—but he stopped himself, covering his shame with his hands and scowling at Murphy. Not only was he embarrassed to be caught, but he was angry at hell to have been interrupted at a critical moment. It was like he’d been about to wash the grime off a glass and see through it to what Molly looked like naked. Under his cupped hands, his neglected cock kept throbbing, iron-hard but without even its master to service it.

“I thought cops needed a warrant to enter the premises,” he blurted out.

Murphy shrugged, seeming perfectly comfortable to be in the same room with a naked man towering over her and recently engaged in self-abuse. “Blame the new girl. I got here and the door was open a crack. Had to make sure there was no B&E going on.”

That was like Molly, Harry had to admit. And he’d been so eager to empty his balls that he’d neglected to make sure she’d locked the door behind her, trusting in his wards to protect him more than a few locks and bolts.

“There’s only you,” he mumbled, blushing a furious red.

“No, now there’s the two of us. But don’t stop on my account.” She tilted her head, grinning as she stared openly at his naked body. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Harry gaped at her, shocked at how… sexy she was all of a sudden. Obviously, circumstances being what they were, he was inclined to find a woman attractive if she were hitting on him, had a magnificent bust in a tight T-shirt with nothing underneath, and had a cute, adorable face with a look of sexual mischief all over it. She was clearly amused to have caught him in the act, but it was just as obvious that she was fascinated.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, taking advantage of his shellshock to get another zinger in. “Need a hand? That does look like more than a one-man job, if you ask me.”

His cock acted like it was aware of the compliment, lurching so hard that it shook his covering hands. At the same time, Murphy stepped closer.

“Then again, maybe I can handle it all by myself,” she whispered huskily, looking up at his face with even more heat than she’d eyed his cock with.

“Maybe you can,” Harry murmured. 

His hands felt loose and clammy. Murphy was easily able to pull them away from his groin. Then she fisted her hand around his member. He almost fainted. She held him for a moment, squeezing his manhood tighter and tighter—then she loosened her grip and began to pump it up and down. She knew what she was doing. Harry stared at her, openly drinking in her voluptuous body as the feeling of her jerking grip flooded over him.

“Ooooh!” Murphy squealed when his load came spurting out in a creamy explosion. His jism splashed all over her shirt, drenched her hand and arm, but she kept jerking happily away, draining him with more and more pulling ejaculations. Until finally, Harry was empty. His cock dropped limply between his legs. 

“Not bad, Lash,” Harry breathed, stepping past her to sit down on the toilet. “Not bad at all.”

In a heartbeat, Murphy was gone, replaced by the more usual persona of his parasite. Lash, in her preferred form, was a tall, slender brunette. Her raven hair was cut to a dignified length above the nape of her neck, while her cheekbones, nose, and jawline were straight and true, giving her a regal air with none of Murphy’s paradoxical cuteness. Her piercing green eyes tied a bow on the imperial look of her face, aristocratic but not cruel—maybe capable of cruelty.

Her body, of course, was perfection. She narrowed appreciatively at the waist before her body ramped up into svelte hips, jutting ass, firm thighs. Above the waist, her breasts were high and firm, dominating her sleek torso. She wore, at the moment, something along the lines of a toga—fabric swathing her hips but dangling loosely down her pubis and the uppermost curvature of her buttocks, then sweeping up her belly and chest to cover all of her upper body but her back and sides. A choker held it in gently rustling place, displaying the sides of her breasts underneath the thin fabric, but Harry knew that as precarious as the whole situation looked, Lash wouldn’t reveal an inch more than she wanted to. She was a little like Molly when it came to that. All about the plausible deniability.

“What gave me away, my host?” Lash asked, her tender voice far different from Murphy’s gruff remove, yet he knew it was infinitely less sincere. Murphy cared about him, she just didn’t show it short of near-death experiences. Lash was pure sarcasm. At least, it was safest to tell himself that.

“Besides the fact that I doubt Murphy would ever break into my place, walk in on me jerking off, and decide to join in? I don’t know, maybe that she wouldn’t sound off like a porn star when I came. Even if that was a nice touch—technically speaking.”

“Thank you, my host,” Lash said, needling him with the knowledge of ‘their relationship’. From a certain point of view, he had still masturbated, but there was jerking off and then there was jerking off to furry porn. He wasn’t convinced Lash’s offers weren’t closer to the latter than the former. “Perhaps you would care to keep going? I know you have a great deal of pent-up… interest in the female form. It’s distracting, if not stressful. I could do more to help you relieve it…”

She gave him a few of the greatest hits collection. Shiela Starr started off the party, then Anastasia Luccio. Then Lady Maeve. Lara Raith, for good measure. All of them dressed like the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. Harry felt his cock coming back to life like it’d been five years since he’d last come, not five seconds.

“This the part where you tell me I can’t resist you?” he asked, not bothering to cover himself. Lash was in his head—she was probably more familiar with his anatomy than he was.

Lash didn’t let out a maniacal laugh, not exactly, but she did smile like she was somewhere between hearing a really good joke and having an orgasm. “You couldn’t, remember?” she said, coming back to ‘herself,’ but wearing the spunk Harry had decorated Murphy’s form with. “We’re stuck together, my host. We might as well make the most of it. Let’s have some fun. Besides—“ Like that, the toga was soaking wet, clinging to every inch of her body, showing everything through its translucency. Pouting breasts. Shaven cunt. The belly button that pulled together her sleek abs. She could’ve been sculpted from crystal, polished to perfection. “You really can’t resist me.”

Harry responded in the best way he knew how: with a bad British accent. “Au contraire, baby. I think that you can't resist me.”

Lash tilted her head to the side, now more Michael Myers than seductress. She still made it look hot, creepily enough. “How’s that, my host? I’ve had orgies with hundreds in the heyday of Caligula. You’re jerking off in a shower that isn’t even running. I didn’t know you had the self-esteem to have that inflated an opinion of yourself.”

“Maybe,” Harry said evenly. “But you’re in my head. And I may not be able to get you out, but as long as you’re here, I pick the tunes.”

Suddenly Lash felt her body relax. Her mind felt like it was being covered in flowing honey. Harry was her best friend in the world. It was wonderful to be with him, so pleasant and… tingly.

“What… what’s happening?” she asked.

“Letting you feel a little of what I feel,” Harry said. “Adjusted for inflation. How do those clothes feel? Comfortable?”

Lash felt warm. She had to take her clothes off. She didn’t want to, exactly, but… why should she keep them on? She unhooked her gown from her choker, lowering it down her body, letting Harry’s hungry eyes devour her bare chest.

“I… I…” Lash sputtered, feeling confused. It felt good to take off her clothes. It was lovely not to be wearing them. But a resisting part of her said that this was giving up too much control to Harry. In a fit of defiance, she dressed herself again—mentally covering herself in a bra and panty set. 

Harry smiled, enjoying the sight of her in the thin, semi-translucent white lingerie. It hugged her breasts and pulled tight across her pelvis, like more like the shine gleaming off her creamy skin than two pieces of fabric.

Lash shook her head once more. What was she so confused about again? She couldn’t even remember…

“Are you attracted to me?” she asked Harry. “Do you think I’m sexy?”

“Very much so,” Harry said, immensely enjoying the reversal of fortune. 

It’d been a surprisingly simple spell to pull off, at the end of the day. Just sending certain emotional energies to the portion of his brain Lash occupied, then concentrating those energies until they were too much for her to handle. It was admittedly a little like mind-control, which was against the laws of magic, but he doubted even Morgan would read him the riot act for mind-controlling his own mind. 

Eager to please because she was eager to get pleased, Lash turned around, displaying her body at every angle, even bending over a little to stick out her ass and show him how perfectly round it was. A part of her wanted to stop showing herself off like a pin-up girl, but a larger part of her wanted more of the honeyed feeling her mind had given her when Harry was happy with her. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” Lash asked, licking her lips, the question all but an open plea.

It was a word she never used, coarse and vulgar, far too overt for her preferences. But once she said it, something came alive between her thighs, inside her. She felt a glorious warmth burning in her womanhood, simmering as her juices flowed and her clit swelled. She felt so hot, so sexual.

“Why not? Hey, how about you take off the bra, Lash?” Harry put in gently.

“I couldn’t… could never…” Lash breathed as her hands went to the catch of her bra.

It was his lust, she realized in a dim corner of her mind. He was taking the lust she’d provoked in him and was feeding it back to her, making her as turned on as he was. Only Harry had experience with self-denial, self-control, willpower. Lash was used to indulging her every whim, getting whatever she wanted, when she wanted it, how she wanted it. She couldn’t control herself and so Harry was controlling her, puppeteering her as any Denarian would do to their host.

She unhooked and opened her bra, exposing her bare breasts to Harry. As the bra fell away, she cupped her generous mounds in her hands, first squeezing them, then presented them to Harry. She actually blushed. Her nipples were erect, tremors of desire running out of their stinging hardness.

“The panties now, Lash.”

“My panties,” Lash breathed. The sheer need inside her was so powerful, pounding away like a drum until she thought each new beat would shake her apart. She bent down, slipping off her panties, her breasts dangling before her until she straightened to reveal her pink, wet sex, shorn of pubic hairs.

“You were a big help when I was jacking off,” Harry said sardonically. “But I think you can handle this on your own. Put your hand between your legs and get yourself off, Lash.”

Lash had to do it, before he even said it, her lust was overwhelming. He gave her permission and she needed it too much to question anything at all. Her hand slid down her naked body and pressed into her crotch, rubbing all of the tingly flesh of her sex. Lash went cross-eyed as she roughly massaged her burgeoning clit.

“I’d wager you don’t practice self-love too often, what with all the Caligula orgies and whatnot, huh?” Harry taunted her.

“No—never!” she gasped.

“Well, like they say, first time for everything.” He made it an order. “I believe I might’ve mentioned this before, but, Lash: go fuck yourself.”

It was incredible. Lash had never felt so sexual in all her immortality. Sex had been something she’d used, a tool she’d wielded, but now she was sex. Especially with Harry calling the shots, taking all the stratagems out of her hands. She just had to do as he wished. It wasn’t seduction or manipulation or any of the usual careful artifice she would be bringing to bear on the outside world. She could let go. She could be nothing more than his plaything, yes, his toy in truth instead of as part of her deceit. 

While he watched—because he watched—Lash used first one, then two fingers inside of her pussy. What passed for her heart thumped in hard excitement, reveling in displaying herself to Harry without reservation. She was ashamed of how much she wanted to do it. Millennia of sexual satiation and yet she’d never been mastered as Harry was doing now. There was no pretense. For the moment, she was his.