Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Thief + Wizard, Part 2/4 - I Miss You (Patreon)

Wizard was out of spells.

Oh, she wasn’t out of spell slots by any means. Her memory remained capacious, and the usual lounging-about-the-house repertoire was at her command. Old standbyes like unseen servant and locate object were fully prepared, their delicate latticework of dweomercraft a simple gesture from release. If the throaty moans were anything to judge by, then Necromancer was likewise near release. It seemed that the buxom death mage had not yet grown bored with the erotic applications of animate object, even if Wizard herself had nearly exhausted the supply of suitable implements.

So no. The availability of appropriate magic was not the problem. The problem was one of inclination.

“Are you nearly sated, my sepulchral paramour?” Wizard tried to keep the boredom from her voice.

“Not even close!” returned the other. This despite the deepening coloration of her expansive human ass. “Show me what else you’ve got!”

Wizard glanced towards her spellbook. She made no effort to peruse its contents though. What was the point?

The breakup with Thief had been emotionally taxing, but the rebound had proven both sensually and intellectually stimulating. The initial challenge of outdoing one another with repurposed arcana had been... rousing... to say the least. Wizard and Necromancer had suggested new kinks for one another, ranging from the prosaic (Cleric had objected to the sudden onset of exhibitionism) to the obscure (their castings of Thunderwave could hardly keep up with Wizard’s newly-discovered—if temporary—brush with keraunophilia.) The paired application of haste and slow had given rise to heretofore undreamed-of somatic manipulations, most of which called for generous applications of grease. And perhaps most surprising, experimentation with true strike had yielded results rather like a dowsing rod, identifying a surprising array of erogenous zones in both parties. With practice, they had both managed to perfect the art of the “one-shot kill.”

And yet, after a matter of mere weeks, the thrill of arcano-libidinal exploration that had distinguished their courtship had been exhausted. The former elven princeling could no longer remember the rage or resentment that had driven her to the present alliance. While the intellectual impression of these unsavory emotions remained, all the ardor of that initial betrayal had vanished.

“Minor illusion,” murmured Wizard.

“What was that?” asked the blindfolded human.

“What? Nothing at all. Certainly it was not a soft exhalation signifying disconsolate yearning.”

“Oh,” said Necromancer. There was silence for a moment, save only for the steady, meaty thwack of hot brush-on-ass action. “Then would you mind turning up the intensity on this thing? I barely feel like a wicked little mage who’s gotten her just desserts.”

There was a gesture of magical potency then. The slapping sound suddenly increased in both frequency and volume. And thus adjusted, it did an admirable job of covering the sounds of melancholy elven sighing.