Objects in Grimoire Are Closer than They Appear
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
Thakur suggested that my last story was insufficiently dark. Consider this a sequel, of sorts, or perhaps what the last one would've been if it had been rated "R." They explore similar themes; this one is just unabashedly colder. Does it work? Well, that's for you to tell me. As __always, please respond with criticism and feedback. I will respond when I'm finished showering, which may not be ever.
In this endeavor I am indebted to Thakur and
Spudz for their invaluable assistance in editing and generally putting up with me. Yeah! Anyway, on with the show:
"Objects in Grimoire Are Closer than They Appear," by Rob Baird
In the musty stacks at the top floor of the library, Emma Callaghan sat cross-legged, thumbing through the ancient spellbook with rapt attention. Everything on the floor was older than her seventeen years, and many of the volumes dated back to the frontier days, when Our Lady of the Light Perpetual had been a little one-room schoolhouse, an unwavering beacon against the darkness.
The school was larger, now, and more stately -- but the darkness remained. Outside, rain slanted mercilessly against the yellowing panes of the library's windows, occasional flashes of lightning lent an atmospheric flicker to the waning evening, and the distant purr of thunder made the vixen's ears flick distractedly.
The book she held was titled A Solemne Gyde of Wicche-crafte, though only the front matter was in old English; the materials themselves had been scrupulously translated and typeset, and the margin notes were from the middle 19th century. It was a grimoire -- a text of ancient magic spells -- and it gave her a little thrill to think of what might've been done with them.
Not that she believed in magic. But it was October 31st -- Halloween -- and while she had no intent of venerating that pagan tradition, the forbidden thrill of the grimoire was exciting to her.
There were many exciting things in the library, if anyone cared to look, which is why she snuck so often onto the upper floor -- mystical books like this the least of them. She'd found old church records, too, and ancient artistic collections with drawings of people engaged in the sinful sort of activities that made her blush heavily -- then glance around furtively, and investigate the sketches more closely.
The grimoire had none of those, of course. The notes had been left by a Brother Malone, and they told a story of working through the grimoire, trying out its spells. She leafed quickly through it, wondering at what life had been like back in Malone's time. South Dakota was wild, then -- no movie theaters, no tractors, no Internet, no smartphones. They would've shut their doors firmly, on a night like this, and tried to ignore the howling wind.
The notes ended abruptly, and she tilted her head curiously, pushing her glasses up her muzzle and leaning in to see what she'd missed. She flipped back a page. The spell was titled "On summoning creatures for miscreant biddings," and to the side ran Brother Malone's scrawl:
This, the first 'exciting' incantation in the codex, has the abbot fearful. When I mentioned I had reached the section, he bid me skip over it, muttering darkly about '1835' and 'the winter of the long night.' But the abbey's records for that year are absent, and his objections to such a silly concept seem nothing so much as juvenile (what a surprise, to recall his views this morning on numerological divination). Summoning! With its ridiculous hints of spontaneous generation... I think I shall disobey him and perform the spell tonight, to report copiously on its lack of result.
Emma frowned, for it was if nothing else the end of a good story; Brother Malone had a sense of humor, and his sneaky asides at the churlish abbot had been good fun. She started to close the book, and then caught another bit of scrawl, near the top of the next page: "Impossible! I have --" the text ended abruptly, halfway through a glyph that could've been the beginning of a half-dozen letters.
You have what_, Brother Malone?_ Emma thought. She let her neatly manicured claw trace over the words, as though they would become more clear, and when this act accomplished nothing she turned the page back and looked at the spell again. It was in Latin, which she didn't understand, exactly -- but her schooling had taught her the pronunciation well enough: "ignis, tempestatis, et ululatus canes excruciati..." It ran for three dense lines, and she stumbled once or twice, but at the final command she giggled, and shook her head. "Oh, Brother Malone. It's not impossible. It wasn't even --"
"So do y'actually know what you just said?"
Her breath caught, but the scream that started to form cut off in a shocked gasp and she scrambled to her feet, dislodging the book and letting it fall to the floor. "Wh-who are you?" The man was tall and stockily built, a massive black dog wearing a trench coat, a suit, and a fedora that made him look nothing so much as Humphrey Bogart -- which, when Emma's heart stopped pounding, she guessed was probably the point. A costume. He didn't look so old; a college kid, maybe, maybe a little older.
He reached out his arm, the paw massive -- twice as large as her own. She shook it cautiously. "Harry," the dog said. "I startle you?"
"A-a little," she admitted.
"Sorry." His voice was husky and dark, and it brought to mind how she imagined the taste of whiskey. "Figured I'd step inside -- the light was on. What's your name?"
"Emma. Emma Callaghan."
"What were you mumbling there?" He jerked his blunt muzzle at the grimoire, which lay face-down, the priceless old pages bent.
She leaned over and straightened them, closing the tome and setting it on a carrel, shaking her head. "Nothing. A-an ancient spell. I guess. Just -- you know. S-silly old stuff."
"Getting in the spirit, huh?"
"Of Halloween? No, I don't... I mean. I'm Catholic. Halloween is... It's a bit vulgar, sir. Harry. All this debauchery."
He snorted. "You mean like sneaking into a library and pretending to be a witch?" He stepped closer, pinning her between the stacks and the carrel, reaching across her to open the book roughly, his fingers dragging carelessly over the pages as he turned them. "'On calling forth a great fire'? 'On turning the thoughts of the weak-minded'? Hell, that all sounds pretty pious, don't it? Which one was it?"
"I didn't mean it," she protested weakly. The dog was uncomfortably close -- a few inches away, near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body and catch his faint, musky smell from beneath his jacket. She started to duck down and away from him.
Harry's free paw caught her by the shoulder, drawing her back. "Where're you headed? You didn't even answer my question. Which one?"
"I..." She sighed heavily; her black-tipped ears swung back and the vixen pursed her lips. "Summoning a creature to do my miscreant bidding," she echoed the text. "Like I said, it's just silly --"
"Is it? You got one, didn't you?" The dog let the book go, and his other paw took her hip, pressing her roughly back against the bookcase. "Right?" The bookshelves jammed painfully into her back, but when she tried to arch herself away from them, this only pressed herself closer to the other canine, and his grin took on a slightly wicked note.
"I should -- I should really be going, Harry." She tried to keep the slight note of apprehension out of her voice. "Besides, it's late..."
He chuckled, a low, predatory sound, and his paw slid around to her firm rump, giving a squeeze that was less affectionate than it was... appraising. She shivered nervously, and he did it again. "Go, huh? Make me walk up all these stairs for nothing? Naw, I don't like that," he said easily, shaking his head, ending the argument before it began.
Emma glanced about, but of course there was nobody else in the library. She couldn't even hear cars on the street outside; for all intents and purposes she was as alone as if the world had ended and the pair were the only two left alive. "Well, but I... Look, Harry, I-I-I'm sure you're, um... nice, but my, uh, but I c-can't, F-Father Reilly says --"
"Aw, fuck, can the Miss Jesus audition already. You think I buy it? It's Halloween, and you're up here readin' off forbidden spells dressed like..." He leaned back to look over her, dark eyes sweeping over every inch of the vixen's body. His paw at her shoulder came forward, and he groped her breast firmly through the fabric of her uniform. She gasped at the touch in what she hoped was dismay. "Well, like that? Yeah, you're one hell of a good girl, aren'tcha?"
"It's my uniform," she said, her voice a desperate whine. "I don't --"
Harry cut her off, taking her muzzle in his paw -- the fingers dug in sharply, and she felt her teeth pressing painfully against her cheek. "Stop fencing with me, and get on your fucking knees." When she tried to protest, he gave the back of her knee a kick with one booted foot, buckling it, and she hit the floor with a yelp. "Fuckin' Catholic bitches," he muttered darkly. "You'd think you could follow simple instructions better."
The dog loomed above her, and she was suddenly aware of just how large he was. Thoughts of escape that had briefly flickered up guttered and went out without another word. Emma swallowed and looked up nervously, catching the dog's eyes before he rolled them in exasperation.
"Wrong way," he drawled, putting his paw on the bridge of her muzzle and shoving it down to face his crotch; there was a noticeable bulge there, and her eyes flicked back and forth, trying to avoid seeing it. The dog gave her a second, then growled softly. "What, you need help with that, too?" He unfastened his belt and the button of his trousers, unzipping them and pressing them downwards. His scent was stronger now, and when he did the same thing with his boxers, revealing his bare sheath and a few inches of dull red flesh, it washed over her sensitive nose.
"I... I have a boyfriend," Emma murmured weakly, though her eyes no longer wandered. "R-Russell..."
Harry grunted. "Do I look like I work for the Census? You think I survey every cunt that sucks my dick? Christ -- he ain't here, you know what to do, and I'm getting tired of having to tell you every damned thing. We don't have all night."
With one eye closed, the lack of depth perception made the dog's erection seem a little smaller and less threatening; she gave a hitching sigh, leaned forward, and flickered just the tip of her tongue over the glistening red meat. Then she drew it back sharply, and it took a moment to register that nothing about the act had been conspicuously unpleasant. Before Harry could growl, or grab her in those pie-plate paws of his, she did it again, and this time she nuzzled closer, giving a series of laps up and along his exposed member.
It wasn't so bad. Actually, Emma thought, it was a little like acting out one of the scenes in the secret texts she'd found in the library before -- exotic, a little thrilling. She'd never done this with her boyfriend -- she supposed it was a sin, of course, and in any case he'd never really asked, only sort of hinted. And he looked nothing like the dog before her.
His cock had only grown, slipping from the dark sheath -- save for his member, his eyes and his teeth he was entirely black -- to prod at her tongue as she slid it over him in wet circles. The ebony canine groaned throatily, and his paw squeezed roughly at her ear, the coarse pads fondling them encouragingly.
She could taste something salty, with a slight tang to it, spilling down from the tapered tip, and Emma shut her eyes for a moment. Well, Russ doesn't have to know. She parted her lips wider and nudged the dog's rigid dick into her muzzle, closing about it and sucking softly until the taste of his pre became weaker as it coated her tongue thoroughly. Harry growled appreciatively, jerking his hips forward a bit to press himself deeper; his tip dragged at the roof of her mouth, and she had to breathe through her nose.
It was hard to believe that this was meant to go inside someone, she thought with a brief pang of apprehension. When she tried to wrap her paw around him, she couldn't quite make it -- she squeezed a bit, but there was no give to the rigid flesh, hot and strong and pulsing beneath her fingers. The dog gave a rumbling groan, shoving his hips into her muzzle firmly, pinning her paw between her lips and his sheath as it bunched up at the base of his cock.
He relented to let her work cautiously over him in her slow, suckling way -- as much as she could, anyway. His shaft filled her mouth thoroughly, pressing her tongue against her canines as he slid over it, and when he was nudging the back of her palate, almost reaching her throat, two or three inches of bare, thick meat still lay before her eyes.
The dog's precum was coming in quicker spurts now, the taste growing stronger against her tongue and spilling down her throat hotly; she was reminded of taking medicine against her will as a child. Harry's breath was coming in deep, ragged pants; when he thrust against her muzzle, half-choking her, it was with a low, lupine growl that caused her ears to flick reflexively back.
Finally he pulled away, pressing her backwards and into the bookshelf, his length slipping wetly from her muzzle. "Get up," he grunted. When she hesitated, he grabbed her by the shoulder and hauled her standing again before shoving her roughly down onto the carrel; the edge of the desk dug into her tail, which smarted, and she gave a soft yip that he pointedly ignored.
Harry put his paws -- dexterous enough, for as large as they were -- at her legs, spreading them apart quickly and stepping between them before she could react. He hoisted her skirt up unceremoniously, and when she felt his dull claws searching for the elastic band of her panties she realized in a rush of nerves what he intended to do. Tasting him was bad enough -- this was too far. There was a word for girls who did that sort of thing. "No -- no, no, you can't." She put her paws up, pressing against his chest, trying ineffectually to push him away.
He brushed her attempt off with a sweep of his arm, taking both of her wrists in one paw and holding them in place as his fingers tugged at her panties. He stepped away from her long enough to pull them all the way down the vixen's shapely legs, then shoved himself back between them again, ignoring her attempts to close her thighs. "Yeah?"
Then he drew her hips forward, to the edge of the desk, and she felt something hard and slick pressing at the lips of her sex. She whined and squirmed, fighting against his hold, and with a growl the dog jerked the arm that held her wrists, knocking her head sharply against the back of the carrel. She cried out, dazed -- and then yelped again, as he bucked his hips to plunge deep inside her in one sharp thrust.
"No!" Emma had never let Russ touch her there, and she considered herself a good girl -- which meant her explorations had been confined to her fingers... and the handle of her hairbrush, and such ersatz toys as she'd been able to appropriate surreptitiously. Now her senses returned, and she was aware of a sharp stinging sensation -- but more than that, the stretching, filling feeling of his thick, hard cock pushing into her. It was hard to imagine he had gotten it all inside -- he was so big! she started -- and when she glanced down, the vixen saw that she had been right: an inch or two remained outside, sharp, visual evidence of the dog's girth.
"Jesus, girl," he groaned. "Your cunt's somethin' else. Your boyfriend tell you that already?"
"We never..." she trailed off weakly, and Harry chuckled harshly.
"Sucks to be him, don't it?" He let her wrists go, adjusting his fedora with a dark grin, and then gave her another sharp, rough thrust -- she felt him sink deeper, the pointed tip pressing insistently against her from the inside. He bucked in short little jerks that lifted her up and off the desk, until his hips were grinding firmly against hers and she knew he was buried all the way to the hilt.
In health class, Sister Amy van der Linden had warned that what she referred to as "physical intimacy" was painful, and indeed there was a little discomfort, as he drove himself into her with deep, pounding strokes. But she was aware of a growing warmth, spreading unbidden from her hips, ebbing into her veins, and the nun's warning seemed more than a bit hollow.
Not that there was much intimacy to it. Harry groped at her chest lewdly, his big paw wrapping around the vixen's right breast. She couldn't help it; it took an effort to stifle her moan. He squeezed her again, and she heard the fabric of her blouse tear beneath his claw, and then the front of her bra give way to the same digit. Her nipples were erect, pressing through the shirt and against the flat of his paw, but the feeling of the open air against the fur of the vixen's chest drew her back to awareness.
How was she going to explain her ripped clothes? This was shameful -- it was... she fought off the little jerks of carnal pleasure that kicked through her with each sharp thrust as the dog fucked her mercilessly, pounding her back and into the carrel. It was sinful and wrong -- she started to struggle, arching up to wriggle from beneath the dog's grasp.
Harry snarled fiercely, paw at her throat. "Aw, no you don't. You stay right there, bitch" -- his voice was edgy, sharp, and he slammed her back roughly, driving her head against the wooden frame of the desk. Her thoughts went fuzzy; she felt everything distantly -- the ominous peal of thunder in the background. The slick, wet sound of flesh on flesh as the big dog violated her. The raw, primal pleasure as he stuffed her with his cock, over, and over, and --
She broke her stoic silence with a gasp as that pleasure collapsed in on her in a rush. It coursed through her in waves; turning her body into weak jelly; she felt the tender walls of her sex gripping him in spasms of bliss that rebounded off the dog's shaft and washed back into her. She was shivering, weak, and she heard him growling a guttural oath, bucking in time to the rhythm of her peak.
The dog was still thrusting as she came down from the plateau, but the pace had changed -- rougher; deeper. She was unabashedly dripping, but not so wet as to miss the feeling of slick warmth as his shaft pumped an ever-increasing flow of precum into her. He seemed to be getting bigger; she hazarded a look to see a bulbous swelling at the base of his length, which his strokes worked lewdly into her with a feral snarl.
Emma wasn't even certain that he would fit. For his part Harry didn't seem to care; he gripped her hips sharply, the claws leaving welts as he grabbed her. Grunting deeply, he dragged her down against his thrusts to punch his knot past the resistance of her lips. Her brain was starting to work again, plugging together bits of trivia from Amy van der Linden's lectures.
"S-stop, please, don't you -- ah, what about -- um, protection?" she gasped, against the strength of his building thrusts. "Don't you n-need --"
"Nah." He bit her ear, cutting her off. "Not really." He said it in a harsh growl, and as his hips drew back he seemed to catch, deep inside her. Emma squirmed desperately, but the dog was trapped, and he grabbed her hips to keep her still. His eyes went unfocused for a moment, and she felt him straining forward, grinding against her hips; then his cock lurched, and something hot splashed against her inner walls. "Oh, that's it -- take it! Take it, you little bitch," he growled urgently against the vixen's pinned ear.
Emma wanted to fight back, but it was too late for that -- she could feel each warm spurt of the dog's cum when he claimed her, his thick shaft pulsing and jerking rhythmically. It felt dirty to be so aroused at the thought, but she couldn't hold back -- his seed was so good, spreading into her, and she shuddered into a second climax, whimpering and bucking against the dog above her.
When it had faded to little aftershocks and the dog's spurts had slowed to weak trickles, revulsion gripped her once more. Against the undeniable pleasure there was a sense of faint terror -- Sister van der Linden had made it clear that the tie was something you did when you wanted to impregnate someone. To claim them as your own. To knock them up.
Was that what he was doing? Emma felt dirty; her ears wilted and she looked up at the dog reproachfully with a soft whimper: "You didn't have to do that..."
"Don't confuse 'have to' and 'want to,'" he panted. "I didn't have to, but I wanted to come in your cunt, see? So..."
Her eyes lowered. "But..."
Harry shook his head with an annoyed growl. "Y'don't really get this, do you? Nobody asked your opinion. You're not being interviewed for a newspaper. Just fucking take it." He snorted, clicking his teeth sharply. "'Sides, you're a pretty good fuck, for a schoolgirl."
She started to answer, but the lights went out; a moment later there was a dull crash of thunder, and the dog's teeth flashed in the glow of the streetlamps that still burned, just outside.
"See? Even your God agrees. So be a good little bitch and shut up, yeah?"
Emma whined softly, laying her ears back. He didn't say anything else as his seed flowed into her, though his breath occasionally caught in a sated groan and he gave a little grind of his hips. In the darkness he was nothing but a shadow, ominous and looming. His eyes, she saw for the first time, glowed red, and it took a few seconds before she could convince herself that it was just the reflected glow of the library's "exit" sign.
It was still dark when she felt him finally soften and pull back from her with a wordless grunt; a rush of wet fluids spilled from her stretched sex to stain the back of her skirt and soak into the fur of the vixen's brushy tail. In the darkness he turned, and she heard the heavy thud of his boots on the stairs, growing softer.
Trembling, her ears pricked forward, alert in the darkness. She never heard the door close.