The Anye Witch Coven

Chapter 1: Bianca Censori

Jason was just a normal kid. But sometimes normal people get swept up in something bigger than they are. Stranger than they are. More beautiful than they are.

He was scooping leaves out of Kanye West's pool one day when a female voice cut the air.

"Hey, hot stuff!"

He spun. Bianca Censori was leaning over the rail, watching him.

Terror blasted through him. The net fell through his fingers, clattering on the poolside.

His boss had been very clear about celebrities.

"Kid, you might see famous people along your route. Ignore them. Pretend they don't exist. Don't talk to them. Don't ask for selfies or autographs. Don't even make eye contact. Keep your head down, clean their pool, and go. If I hear you're bothering stars, you're gone. A million kids would kill for your Beverly Hills route, and I can replace your ass in a heartbeat."

"Relax, kiddo..." Bianca's smile slitted out, an Invisalign-perfect arc. Lacquered fingernails drummed against the rail, ringing quartet-note arpeggios on sun-burnished metal. "I don't bite."

She leaned further over, biting her lip. One ankle kicked playfully against the other.

"...Just

watchin' ya

."

Unlatching the gate, she sauntered toward the pool. Toward Jason. His heart thundered inside his ribs.

Oh God, what am I supposed to do? If my boss hears about this, I'm dead.

She stalked him down with an arrogant strut that started from her hips, all sway and bounce and roll. Her voluptuous derriere curved arabesques as she moved; writing cursive on the summer air. Drawing close, she put hands on his shoulders. Her soft feminine touch sent hormonal tides surging beneath Jason's skin.

Bianca was physically overwhelming. She propounded a dolled-up, slutty cuteness: her face was blade-sharp; her tawny eyes piercing, her boyishly short hair swept and pulled back in stark knotted cords that gleamed like blackest jet. The coiffure of a woman who demands total control--over herself and over others.

Jason's gaze slid from her face to her contradictory yet compelling figure. Curvy and busty, yet strapped with hard Crossfitter muscle, Bianca Censori was a mega-stacked Juggs cover girl and an elite Olympic floor gymnast, Brundlefly'd into one body.

Dumbstruck, Jason gazed at the gigantic balloon-breasts suspended from her chest like sandbags, two feet from his face. Bianca had

fuck-you-for-staring

tits.

Keep-staring-anyway

tits. They wobbled, barely contained, so audaciously

there

that Jason felt their presence like a slap to the face. A scandalous triangle-string bikini trisected each breast into three perfect bulges of summer-tanned flesh, drawing a bullseye around the barely-covered nipple at the center.

"Um, up here?" Bianca laughed. Blushing, Jason lifted his eyes. "I see you cleaning my pool sometimes. What's your name?"

"...Jason."

She punched his arm playfully.

"You got some muscles, champ." Her smile flashed white. "Do you work out?"

He mumbled something about football drills.

"Why don't you ever take your shirt off? Give a lonely housewife some eye candy."

He blanched. This wasn't a conversation, it was a headlong tumble down a rabbit hole.

"...that's against the rules, Mrs West."

The sound of her husband's name curled up her cute button-nose with contempt. "Call me Bianca. There have been too many Mrs Wests for my taste."

"Okay...Mrs Censori."

She laughed again. "Aw, you're a real straighty one-eighty. No fun at all!" In her Australian accent,

straight

rhymed with

Sprite

.

She swept out a hand at the water's shimmering opalescence. "I'm taking a dip. Join me?"

"Er, well," he stammered, "I'd love to, Mrs Censori, but I'm really busy, and also I've just finished cleaning it, so..."

Bianca laid her hands on his shoulders, stared into his eyes, and shushed him with a finger...before doing something that made shushing unnecessary. Something that rendered him speechless.

She shimmied her shoulders, ripped away her sheer mesh bodysuit, and untied her overloaded string bikini. Her big tits exploded into view. They dropped thunderously to her sternum, bouncing and yo-yo-ing to a halt. Stunned, he watched her nipple-capped breasts leap and rebound, as if spring loaded.

With a flick of her hands and a sharp whiplash of her hips, her bikini bottoms hit the tiles, exposing her shaven pubis.

Bianca Censori stood naked and smiling under the hot

Los Angelino

sun.

She stretched out one arm--her pendulous jugs bobbled like a kid's party balloons--and dropped her bikini into the pool.

"Oh, look at that! You

haven't

finished cleaning it!"

She shoved Jason into the water.

Ker-splash!

* * *

They swam together. He didn't know if it lasted a minute or an hour.

Bianca shamelessly flirted; ruthlessly teased. His boxers soon swelled with an erection. She moved and darted and spun in circles around him, tits and ass a-jiggle, even diving between his legs. Her heavy jugs repeatedly brushed his body as they volleyballed through the water. They felt massive and soft and warm.

This can't be real.

She nipped his ankle with those sharp white foxteeth, and his raging cock felt like it was about to explode.

She's Kanye West's wife. This is against the rules. All of them!

If I talk to a celeb, I'm fired. If I make eye contact with a celeb, I'm fired. If I swim in a celeb's pool, I'm tied to a stake, publically executed, shoved into a woodchipper, mulched into paste, excommunicated by the Pope, blasted into the sun, and THEN fired.

...But what if a celeb makes me do those things? What then?

His boss had never covered that; had probably never thought it would occur. Kanye West was a celebrity, and Bianca Censori was his latest slambunny and thus a celebrity-by-proxy. Jason was just a kid. Invisible. Unnoticed. America had never deposed its aristocracy; just hidden it from view. There were people who mattered and people who didn't, and if you don't know which group you're in, it's the second one.

I'm a nobody to these rich assholes. A pool boy. They think I don't exist.

And yet, in Bianca's eyes, he

did

exist. She'd noticed him. She'd cared. He felt like he'd tumbled into a fairytale about a princess who falls in love with a shoe-cobbler. Maybe it was just the chlorine, but tears were welling up in his eyes. It was inexpressibly powerful, and ennobling...just being

seen.

He was doing plenty of seeing himself, of course.

Jason couldn't take his eyes off Kanye's wife as she waded close, eyes glinting, various items of anatomy jiggling beneath the water.

She dove between his legs again--her trailing foot caressed his throbbing genitals--before erupting from the water behind his back.

"Got a girlfriend, mate?" An Australian-accented voice said into his left ear, as huge tits squashed against his neck.

As bulging cleavage swallowed his head like lips engulfing a lollipop, Jason admitted that he did not.

"Ace. Then nobody who matters will care if I do

this.

"

She dropped a hand to the elastic of his boxers, and began masturbating his cock beneath the water.

Jason was too shocked to move. As she pulled down his boxers, his teenaged prick leaped to attention, surging beneath her touch. He could feel his balls churning with cum.

"But Mrs W...Censori...you're married..." he managed to whimper.

She dug a lacqured nail into his balls. Sudden pain made his cock spasm, spitting out pre-ejaculate underwater.

"Please don't be slow on the uptake, Jason. I

am well aware

that am I married. I spent three fucking hours being fitted for a wedding dress! My marital situation is not news to me, believe it or not!"

With her hand not missing a stroke, Bianca's head vanished and reappeared on the other side of his body. Her lips pursed beside his right ear now, pink DSLs curling back like the bell of a piccolo trumpet.

"I. AM. HAVING. AN. AFFAIR."

Then her hot tongue twisted into his ear.

Jason's shaft had softened when she'd stabbed a nail into his scrotum. One sweeping lash of her tongue made it roar back to life.

He gazed downward into the shimmering surface of the pool, watching as her famous hand reached around his body, stroking off his unfamous cock. He felt like he was in a dream that had unexpectedly turned wet, in many senses.

Bianca nuzzled into the shivering curve of his neck.

"I never should have married." Bitterness welled like wormwood from her mouth. "I sit in that mansion all day, never being touched, never getting what I want. Just a trophy with a work visa."

The hand pulling his prick gripped painfully hard. He lacked the courage to tell her to ease up. The rippling water refracted light weirdly: his penis went from tiny to hentai-huge with each passing wave. A drip-feed of pre-cum trailed visibly from the throbbing tip, diffusing like smoke.

"I'm so lonely that

I'm fucking the bloody pool boy!

" Bianca laughed miserably. "What a cliche I've become!" Her voice dropped; became an ophidian hiss. He heard insanity circling inside her words; the pacing of a tiger confined to a too-small cage. "I don't care. I'd rather be a cliche than a trophy. I just want to feel alive again. Just for ONE. BLOODY. DAY."

Jason was stunned by the raw anger in her voice, thrumming like high-tension steel cables.

Doubly-stunned by the idea that Bianca, of all people, was lonely and unfulfilled.

Triply

-stunned by the notion that you could have a wife as hot as Mrs Censori and

not

be stuffing her like a Thanksgiving turkey twenty-five hours a day.

Damn, Kanye's even crazier than I thought.

But then, Ye didn't seem to ever be at the mansion.

Jason had cleaned the West pool for weeks. He'd seen Bianca at a distance many times. He'd never seen Kanye. Or at least, he'd never seen a man he could ID conclusively as Kanye.

Once or twice he'd witnessed a slump-shouldered figure stumbling across the lawn, face wrapped in what looked like trash bags. It might have been a security guard, it might have been a homeless person, it might have been the lord of the manor. Who could tell anymore?

Many rumors swirled about Kanye. That he hadn't been seen in public for weeks. That he was blowing off media commitments. That he was missing studio dates.

"Where's Kanye?" he asked innocently...and was rewarded with a crushing squeeze to his balls.

"I will give you one warning. I don't want to hear

that name

out of your mouth ever again. Keep your mouth shut, stop thinking about my supposed husband, and enjoy this."

Supposed husband? What does that mean?

"Sorry!" he jabbered. "I'm just trying to understand..."

Bianca pushing the back of his head deeper into the wet, dark gulch of her cleavage. Her flesh nearly swallowed his skull. The lips snaked close enough to brush his ear.

"There's a lot about me that you don't understand." Her grip didn't tighten on his balls, but it threatened to. "So don't try."

Her handjob took him over the edge. Bianca seemed to know his orgasm was coming before he did. One final flick of his shaft, she drew her hand away...and then he pig-squealed.

His pink cock bucked like a shotgun underwater, and six ropes of cum spewed out. They pulsed out of his hitching, jerking balls in unbroken ropes, the strands coiling and twisting through water like living white worms.

"That was quick!" Bianca giggled, as the cum-strands drifted away, sucked into the pool ventilation. "You must have been really backed up."

Jason sagged back into her body, panting. Her boobs flowed around his ears like sails. He'd beaten off twice that day (and four times the day before), but didn't think mentioning this would help his case.

Bianca vanished. Her lips were gone from his ear. Her breasts were no longer draped across his shoulders like pontoon floats. He heard her splashing for the poolside, giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Come to the house." Her skipping bare feet rung bassy notes on the ladder. "I want your body in my bed, Jason. I want to

defile

it."

Ugh.

Jason felt like he'd ejaculated his spinal fluid out through his cock. He drifted to the pool's edge, exhausted. The thought of more sex rolled a truck over him.

"I can't get hard again," he whimpered.

Bianca didn't reply. She just climbed out of the pool, letting water pour down her glistening curves of thigh, back, and ass. She wrung a miniature explosion of water from her hair, which settled into stark hedgehog spikes around her shoulders.

She swung her head back toward him, smiled, and slowed her walk down.

Slowed it to a lascivous, wanton

plod

.

Jason watched that thick sun-browned ass tick-tock maddeningly from side to side. Her obscene, flesh-heavy buttocks wobbled as she swung and seesawed her hips. Wiggling. Wriggling.

Jiggling.

Occasionally, they trembled apart, granting glimpses of her moist, dark asshole.

Ten slow steps.

That was all it took to make him a liar.

* * *

Inside the mansion, things moved at lightning speed.

He felt caught inside a whirlwind. The world was shattered images. Fractured glimpses. Broken mirror shards, auguring impossible dreams.

"Catch me if you can!" Bianca led him on a frantic hunt. She was always one step ahead, always darting out of reach. "Come! Keep up!" She hurled scraps of encouragement at him as his hands snatched for her flying tits and ass, closing on empty air instead. She had an eerie ability to predict what he'd do.

His erect cock jutting from his hips, Jason chased her from one side of the Tadao Ando-designed hacienda to the other, leaving a trail of water over the expensive hardwood. He skidded, knocking over what appeared to be a priceless Ming vase.

Smash

. Bianca didn't even look at it. She just threw back her fat ass toward him, slapped it, and smiled. "

Catch me, Jason! Catch me!

"

He pursued her up the stairs, through an Italian-style mezzanine level, and then into Bianca's bedroom. It was plain and functional. The bedroom of an architect, of a mind focused on structures rather than surfaces. It was dominated by a huge four-poster bed, as big as Jason's entire UCLA college dorm room, with a mirror mounted on the wall above. When you fucked on this bed, you fucked for an audience--even if that audience was yourself.

Bianca leaped onto the bed with the grace of liquid mercury flowing through the air--a glint of sun-browned flesh briefly caught the sun through the window, flashing fire like a serpent's flicking tail--and waved for Jason to climb on top of her.

She spread her bulky, muscular thighs apart like a whore.

My whore

. The thought made his heart skip a beat.

The sight of her splayed legs dried up moisture in Jason's mouth. The soft downlights gleamed on the fibers of her gym-bulked quadriceps.

"What's the story, morning glory?" Bianca asked, her mouth a lascivious slant, resting her arms on the pillows. "Are you gonna fuck it, or just look at it?"

Jason stared at her shaven pussy in confusion. And faint disgust. The flaps were far meatier than most of the women in porn. He could smell a pungent, off-putting aroma. That's the thing virgin boys don't realize about porn.

It doesn't smell.

To buy time, he glanced at the corners of the room. Left? A window with the Venetian blinds drawn. Right? A heap of loose, discarded black clothes, wadded up in a corner to waist-height. It looked like several baskets' worth. Jason found this strangely encouraging.

I guess the rich and famous can be slobs about their laundry too.

Bianca loudly cleared her throat, and he joined her on the bed. "Sorry."

Her heat of her glowing Aussie flesh radiated out, touching him like a furnace. A shard of lust pierced his crotch.

They came together. They kissed. Then they embraced, gripping and caressing, causing shivers to spike through each others' bodies. Hot hands explored Jason's back; sharp fingernails dug into Jason's skin. He moaned with desire, a shudder wracking his goosepimpled flesh.

Bianca took control, dragging him on top of her, squeezing him against her breasts, then twisting her buxom figure around until his skinny body was underneath hers'. The convolutions of her sinuous flesh continued, until he was on top again. Rinse. Repeat. Around and around and around. Jason became dizzy with the circles she was spinning around him. When she was on top, her big tits flowed over him like molten wax, burying him in their obscene heat and weight. When he was on top, he had to struggle not to slide off. He was still slippery-wet from the pool. He felt like an awkward and ungainly puzzle piece trying to fit into a picture that was already full and complete.

She has a perfect body. A perfect life. Kanye's never here. She could have anyone...

, he thought as kisses stole away his breath. Their eyes locked. Virginal fear striking sparks off cold, cardsharp confidence.

How can she possibly want...me?

As he stared into her face--alluring yet cold, etiolated of passion--he became uncomfortably sure that the answer was

she doesn't.

So why was she fucking him?

Awkwardly flailing, Jason clasped her breasts. They were so big they dwarfed his hands. He slid his sweaty palms to her muscle-packed waist, which made his look like a sack of potatoes. He glanced up at the wall-mounted mirror, and shrank from what he saw. A tiny, lumpy goblin trying to court an Olympian goddess.

None of this makes sense. I'm not even hot.

He heard a sound then. A soft, liquid gurgle.

He didn't know where it had come from. Down the hall? From inside the walls? It sounded halfway between a blocked pipe suddenly clearing, and a

voice

. A toothless mouth, slurring out some fragment of an alien language.

"Fuck me!" whispered Bianca urgently, gripping his cock and pumping it to hardness.

She butterflied her thick thighs backward, allowing her naked flesh to form an archway. Her legs formed a triangle. A pointing arrow, showing him the way.

"Fuck me!"

The repeated words were now deeper. Throatier. Her eyes were challenging. Bold. A bandleader calling a tune he didn't know.

Shivering, the chlorinated poolwater long-dried and replaced with a sticky, anxious sweat, Jason aimed his cock at her shaven pussy. Six years of using his hand, and now he was about to fuck one of the most famous women in America.

His penile glans met resistance at her entrance. He canted and tilted his hips, found the angle, and the resistance fell away, replaced by a yielding female softness. He contracted his gluteus muscles, and there it was. Penetration.

Holy shit!

He thought.

I'm inside Bianca Censori's pussy!

He gasped as he was swallowed by the moist heat of her rippling vaginal rugae. Her shuddering twat swallowed him, dragging down into her clasping depths.

Eyes wide with shock, he started to fuck Kanye's wife on their marriage bed.

Kanye's

supposed

wife.

* * *

Sex was very different to masturbating.

His hand weighed practically nothing. He could effortlessly change the angle and pressure of his fingers. By contrast, Bianca's gripping snatch was attached to a hundred-thirty-plus pounds of woman, which he had no ability to move. Changing the slant of his thrusts meant awkwardly re-orienting his hips.

At first, she was too dry, and his cock chafed on her walls. She grimaced, and not from pleasure. He slowed down. Soon after, she started lubricating, drowning him in female pre-cum. So much so that it was a struggle to stop his erection from slipping out.

His penis glided through Bianca's slippery depths. He flexed his hips until he'd slithered all the way up inside her, triggering a delirious cascade of squishes and squelches from inside her twat.