The Witching Hour

By Free the Dancing Llamas

A Oneshot

The Brain of Adeline Parker-Tate

Secret Agent

Day: Friday

Time: 3.05am, approx. three hours before sunrise, five minutes into the witching hour.

Mission: To get into room 242 undetected and steal Sphanx, world's best familiar/annoying cat, who escaped my room a week ago and hasn't returned. Sphanx's return is vital to my soul, damn it. She is also an excellent bed-warmer.

Analysis: Room 242 is next door to current location (Room 243). Mission is stated above. Have disguised self in black as per all great secret agents. Black spy outfit will also help with camouflage in case I am detected (Ok - am wearing black silk camisole and shorts, but can't be bothered to change out of pyjamas).

Room 242 is occupied by one man, Marcus, AKA The Perp. The Perp is the worst. He never smiles, has been known to declare loudly that he hates cats, and for some stupid reason, Sphanx is obsessed with him. But no more! After tonight, Sphanx shall return to my room and never leave me again.

Caution: It's the Witching Hour on a full moon. Inhibitions will be lowered, but am stealthy, am best witch in the town - no - the universe. Will not be impacted by this. Am completely in control of everything.

Status Update: My resources tell me The Perp, AKA Marcus, AKA The Man Who Hates Cats, has left the room. The time is now.

GO GO GO.

Log: Have managed to creep into room 242 undetected. Crawling along the ground like a super spy, am doing black flips and cartwheels like Cameron Diaz in Charlie's Angels. Am moving like the wind.

I am invincible.

Mission objective has been located. One cat, identified as Sphanx, sitting perched on the bed, purring like a traitor, licking self and doing the weird stick-up-leg-flexible-thing. (note to self: google how cats are so flexible later).

Have approached bed, Sphanx looks up and flops down exposing belly for pats. THIS IS MY KRYPTONITE! Am helpless, cannot do anything but sit on the bed and pet Sphanx's soft, warm belly. I try to pick Sphanx up, but she hisses. This is a no – she knows what I'm up to! She will not leave the room.

Oh no! Danger, abort. Bedroom door is opening!

Quick thinking has led me to hide under the bed. This is the perfect hiding spot; no one will suspect - am genius. All I can see is a pair of black boots. They walk towards the bed.

Can hear Sphanx suck up and being sickening, purring louder as the black boots approach the bed. (What a traitor! She is supposed to be my familiar!). The black boots appear to be petting her and she is loving it. This is ridiculous!

"We have a guest in here, huh?" the deep, unfortunately sexy voice asks Sphanx.

Sphanx meows, and continues purring loudly whilst she receives pats (Fiend!).

The boots kneel down next to the bed. Oh no. Am going to be found wearing nothing more than pieces of silk under a strange man's bed. Should have revised spy outfit.

A face peers under the bed, and yes. The owner of the boots, Marcus, AKA The Man Who Allegedly Says He Hates Cats But Then Pats them is staring at me. One eyebrow is raised as if to say, 'what the fuck'.

"Why are you in here?" his deep voice asks, like a whisper wrapping around my body, slithering along my skin. That's a weird sensation, but I realise i don't not like it.

"I can't sleep without Sphanx," It's like he's given me truth serum or something! What a Villain, "I came to try and get her, but she won't move."

He reaches out and grabs me, pulling me out from under the bed and pulls me to stand up. He smells like a man should; like wood, spice and sex, it's disarming, alluring, sickening. (mental note: don't be distracted Adeline! He is the perp here! You need to focus on your mission!)

He's definitely looking at me like I'm a weirdo, but he also seems a little distracted. I'm close enough that I can see the colours in his eyes and the disgusting urge to kiss him is storming itself down my body. (You can't get distracted here, agent! Return to your mission. It isn't too late to try and get the cat).

"If you want to come in here and sleep in my bed, you could just ask," With the way his eyes are staring at me there's no mistaking the implication. Doesn't he know I'll hex him if he tries anything?

"No thanks," I snort (Excellent, show him he has absolutely zero effect on you), "I'm just here to try and see if I can move my cat to my room."

I steel myself and turn around to face Sphanx, I place my hands on my hips, because it's TTGS (Time To Get Serious).

"You're coming with me," I say loudly to Sphanx, who roles back on her stomach and releases a low growl.

Oh dear, this is going to get wild.

"I'm serious," I try to grab the traitorous feline, but a little paw shoots out and she scratches me. "Qw, fine! We are so done here. Stay in this damn room".

I turn around and smack into Marcus AKA. The Man Who Allegedly Doesn't Like Cats But Actually Does And Also Smells Amazing And Is Clearly Very Sexy.

He grabs me by the shoulders and I push my hands against his chest, as if to say 'get off me freak'.

Ok, ok, I don't so much push my hands against his chest as lay them there and touch his chest, enjoying the feeling of his muscles which are devastatingly separated from my hands through his stupid shirt. It's the witching hour! I can't help it, I'm entranced by contact and he is unfortunately a sensory delight!

He knows this too because I then shout out, "Get away from me, you sensory delight!"

He looks at me in confusion at first, but is also smiling at me. I notice his lips are very nicely shaped, full and erotic. Coupled with his smell and how he feels against my body, I know I'm about to go into overload.

"Why don't you take a seat and stay with the cat." He motions me towards the bed.

I want to touch him; I don't want to pat the cat. The witching hour is definitely taking over, because I say it out loud.

His smile gets bigger, which should concern me, but all I'm interested in is the skin underneath his shirt. I say that out loud too.

"Ok," he says calmly, and pulls off the black t-shirt. His muscles are glorious, his shoulders perfect, his body is sculpted.

I can feel the desire flood through me and I get the urge to lick him. So that's exactly what I do. I lean forward, wrap my arms around his neck and lick my tongue from his chest to behind his ear.

I don't care if I look like a freak, or if he doesn't want me to cover him with my saliva. I proceed to bite his earlobe and tug, then rub my face against his, rubbing our cheeks together. I inhale deeply, letting his smell wash over me. I pull back momentarily to look at one of his hands. I want to touch them too. I bring his large hand up and inspect his strong fingers.

His hand has a life of its own! He takes it out of my hand and gently cups the back of my neck, dragging me towards his lips. It's like he's drugging me, his lips against mine feel perfect and glorious.

It should be weird, Marcus isn't for kissing, he's for annoying. His main occupation involves yelling at when he thinks i'm being childish. Which is RUDE. But now I realise I need to revise this assessment, because he's also pretty damned good at kissing.

In a state of heated madness, I jump on top of him and push us both onto the bed.

I don't even care about Sphanx anymore, and she doesn't seem to care about what's going on either because I can see she's resumed cleaning herself, while I maul the man underneath me.

He's driving me wild, kissing my neck, lips dragging the skin, sucking and nipping my sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of generous open mouthed kisses on my body. He gently pushes down the straps of my camisole top, slowly, reverently, his eyes are filled with something intense. I want him to rip the stupid thing off and touch my naked skin, but he's taking his sweet time, gently caressing the skin as he reveals it to the air.

I tell him exactly how I feel, "Take the fucking thing off, you asshole".

Probably shouldn't call Marcus an asshole, he's usually pretty stern, although tonight he just laughs - it's a good laugh, the kind of laugh that send me reeling and makes me tighten my legs.

When my top is finally off he leans down and places a hot mouth over a breast, gently teasing a nipple with his tongue. It's divine and I can feel the wetness between my legs start to pool through my underwear.

I know I'm hissing and growling like a maniac, my only excuse being that it's the witching hour in the week of a full moon and I'm usually asleep at this time or safely tucked away somewhere with my coven sisters (Greatest Witch in the Universe may have been a slight exaggeration).

I'm trying to hastily get his pants off, but he pulls back and I growl again.

"No," he says, gently kissing me, "You don't have full capacity. I won't take you when you're like this."

In any other circumstance it would be sweet really, but it just annoys me because, damn it, I need him to fuck me.

And that's what I say, "I don't care, I need you to fuck me or I'll die".

That's slightly dramatic, and perhaps a little bit, shall we say, desperate. But my brain doesn't give two hoots. All it's interested in is getting a slice of man pie. Specifically a slice of Marcus' man pie (Actually, pie after this would be perfect).

He seems to understand my need, because he gently lays me down and proceeds to trace his hand down inside the little silk shorts. He touches me there. Sweetly, deftly, as if touching me was his sole purpose in life. I grip onto him like he's my only source of water in a drought-ridden desert.

The room is filled with moaning and begging and I realise it's me, pleading with him for release. His fingers alternate between gentle, teasing to pressured and demanding.

I know I'm screaming now, riding again his hand, practically engulfing it. For a moment I open my eyes and his gaze burns me, like he's putting every single detail of this experience into his memory. Marcus' mouth covers mine in a possessive, bruising kiss, and I groan against his mouth, encouraging him, begging him to finish me, to bring me across that final threshold of pleasure.

I don't think i'm speaking coherently anymore, actually I know I'm not. All I can hear are the sounds of high-pitched moaning and heavy breathing and I know it's coming from me. I can feel liquid heat being smeared between my thighs, some of it running down my leg as he continues stroking my clit. His mouth has moved towards the base of my throat and I can feel him sucking and kissing the sensitive flesh there. His other hand finds its way to my sensitive nipples, teasing them until they're hard, large and sore.

It's everything, his hands, his mouth, his tongue. Like he's playing my body as if it were a musical instrument. He's got my pleasure so finely tuned, almost like he's spent his whole life practicing for this moment, studying every which way to cause me utmost pleasure.

Soon the tidal wave of orgasm roles over me and I know I'm practically glowing, my hips jack-knifing off the bed, viciously thrusting against his hand. I feel myself convulsing, body shaking, and he holds me in place, the palm of his hand gently tapping against my pussy as I ride out my pleasure.

As the pleasurable tingles washing over me start to settle, Marcus removes his hand, adjusts my clothes back into place and kisses me tenderly on my head. I'm too exhausted to even properly see or think or do any prefrontal cortex processing. But it doesn't matter right now, all I can focus on is the feeling of him pulling me back to lay against his chest.

It might be the Witching Hour or the fact that I'm possibly going nuts, but for a split second I swear Marcus whispers, "I love you, Adeline."

This is welcome news to my witching-hour, lust-ridden exhausted mess of a brain. I don't know how to interpret it, and I suspect i'll be better equipped to analyse it all tomorrow.

For now, all I reply is, "You're welcome".

I can hear a deep chuckle emit from Marcus' throat, and he pulls me tighter to his chest.

I know I'm drifting to sleep, and I should be mad and ashamed of myself. But I feel too good, too warm, too right in Marcus' arms as I slip into my dreams.

Mission status: Failed?