Selling Sorcery. Chapter 1

Selling Sorcery     Chapter 2>>>

(I have no idea where I am going with this. Really, I’m editing my book and just wanted to rub 2 brain cells together, but hey, maybe this will get to be another series. Fingers crossed.)


The great door opened, revealing the cold and sterile grip of an unwelcoming beast of a house.

The mansion had once belong to a family of madmen and traitors. Through the countless generations these barbarians in elven form had performed ghastly acts, murder, torture, incest, and crimes untold, but because they were of noble blood their deeds had gone unpunished and contested.

No evil was too great for them, no sin they had yet to taste. These brutal anarchists believed themselves higher than the Gods and in their darkest moment they allowed a demon into their number.

A twisted spawn of dead race of wizards and of elven blood, Bartel O’Connell’s evil was the stuff of legend. The very passages of his home cry tears of blood for the innocents he had corrupted. No closet was big enough to hold in the army of skeletons that he had buried. His evil was so awesome that very last spiteful breath he made killed millions.

Which was why the county thought it was best to demolish the old O’Connell’s mansion and turn into one huge concrete park. A place so ugly that no one except the homeless would dare to live there.

Thankfully, neither that particular mansion nor the O’Connell’s had anything to do with Jessy’s new house.

Jessy’s new mansion had been built ten kilometres away from the capital. It was a twenty eight room monster made out of stone, wood, metal, and grit. It had four workshops, a stable, a small garden, and, most importantly, it had plumbing. It had been designed to last for as long as possible without needing constant repair.

Sorie looked at her new home, feeling a stunning assortment of emotions. She felt out of place, she felt lost, she felt hungry, she felt angry, but most of all she felt bloated. But all of that could just be attributed to the growth she had crawling around in her womb.

“Wow.” Bancroft said as she dropped her small bag on the polished floorboards. She admired the her new home, breathing in the smell of new floor boards and the stench of drying paint. “We should have an serious orgy.”

Sorie rolled her chestnut eyes. Being seven months pregnant, she was not in the mood to tumble around with a bunch of sweaty men and women who wanted to poke in places she rather not have poked. She barely felt in the mood to get out of the carriage.

Bancroft spun on Sorie, “We should have a party,”

“No no no.” Sorie said.

“Oh, come on. Yeh not that pregnant.”

She was partially right. Elves had longer stages of pregnancy than most other people. From conception to birth, a human was pregnant for an average of nine months, Wood Elves like Sorie and Bancroft, had sixteen months of the experiencing the joys of walking around with what can only be scientifically called a parasite growing within them.

Sorie was about half way through her pregnancy. Her stomach was little more than a bump, but Sorie felt as though she were dragging around an anvil.

Bancroft seemed to be taking her pregnancy in stride. Three months pregnant and the ex-prostitute was practically doing cartwheels.

This was also understandable. To make up for their insane long livity it was incredibly difficult for an elf to get pregnant. Despite her profession, Bancroft had once been pregnant and though she had never spoke about it, both Sorie and Jessy could tell that the child hadn’t made it very far.

“Bancroft,” Sorie said holding the bridge of her nose, “You and hubby can do whatever you want. I just want to find my room and die there.”

Sorie looked back to see a dozen Silth all scrambling to gather bags and luggage. Bancroft had assured Sorie that her relatives were not total incompetents, though, she had given no promises that they were entirely house trained.

“Oi, don’t you dare drop any of that. Now get it in here.” Bancroft yelled to the dozens the Wood Elves. She turned her head to see that Sorie was already climbing the stairs to the second floor of the mansion, she just shook her head.

One of the girls were the first to reach the new house, “You’re my hero.” the girl said as she past, carrying a large bag that was twice her size like it were nothing.

Bancroft smiled, she suspected that the little sycophant was just looking for a coin or a sweet, but it was still nice to hear. In a way Bancroft believed the brat, she was was with child, she now lived in a huge mansion, she was rich, and though her husband was not conventional she felt like a winner.

It would have been nice if her or her husband actually owned the house and they weren’t just living in it, but it was a definitely step up from sleeping in the gutter begging to suck cock for coin. At least they weren’t paying rent and she got her own room.

Bancroft moved to the function hall, her her new shoes making a lovely echoing noise as they hit the polished floor, the piercing tap tap tapping sending a shiver of pleasure running through her.

She imagined herself wearing pearls, an elegant blood red dress, and the rich and powerful clapping at her entrance. She envisioned dozens of servants attending to her every wish, diving onto the floor in the hope that they would step on her.

She imagined her rivals weeping blood in jealousy, her family cheering for her success.

Bancroft opened her arms and breathed in her wishes and prayers being fulfilled and all of her nightmares and worries vanishing from her soul.

Sorie saw her worst fears all right there in front of her. The crib had been painted baby blue, a joke, a mocking, stinking, festering joke.

She looked at the rest of what will be her prison for the rest of her life. A large queen-sized bed big enough for two, cotton sheets, freshly laid carpet that was outfitted with wards and enchantments that could defeat an archdemon, a walk in wardrobe that was filled with all of her clothes, a desk that was handcrafted oak and filled with secret draws. The room even came with its own heated shower and a toilet system that teleported her shit into the garden.

It was perfect. It was just so fucking, soul crushing, smothering, perfect.

It was more perfect than her little cell at the Academy. This room didn’t have that strange smell coming from the floorboards. Her old room had been more of a dingy cell. The good rooms going to students and staff members who had rich parents. Not Sorie Kingsbrew, no, the little girl whose father sold her didn’t get the big, good rooms that the rich brats did.

Now she did. Now Sorie was being crushed under the weight of grandeur. She doubted queens lived this well.

No longer would she burdened with that little desk, with its foul penis graffiti. No longer would Sorie have to wait in line to have a cold shower. She could go to bed and get up whenever she wanted, like a real person. And, her old teacher said that she would link her room with the Academy so Sorie didn’t have to take a horse ten kilometres to talk to her friends. She could just get out of bed and hop through the magic portal and there she was.

Yes, Sorie couldn’t complain about her new accommodations at all. The paint scheme was a little bland, it needed a bit more light but she knew women who would do anything to live in a room half as fine as this one.

Sorie sat on her bed. The mattress felt as if it was making love to her arse, sculpting itself around her bum. It was supposedly made from this gel that remembered how you slept and massaged your muscles. A nice touch from her husband’s company.

She knew very little about selling and buying things but Sorie could guess that the mattress was worth a lot. The thing that she was sitting on was probably worth more than her tuition. And it hadn’t cost her a thing.

So, if everything was just so perfect, why was Sorie crying?


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