Melvin's Magic Love Juice

Melvin never had much luck with the ladies.

Everyone had been surprised by his marriage, but no one was surprised when his wife was caught being hammered to multiple screaming orgasms by the barely legal teen they paid to come over and mow the lawn. It seemed the front and back yards weren’t the only lawns the kid had been mowing since he’d turned old enough to vote. The towheaded beach bum thought he’d died and gone to heaven when given the opportunity for afternoon delights a day every three weeks or so with a horny housewife, and if Melvin had been a more violent man, the kid may HAVE died and gone to heaven... literally... by way of the shotgun.

But Melvin was far from a violent man and not much more than a scrawny, stick-limbed individual with glasses, a timid nature, and a nose for money. He’d found success in accounting, enough so that he was in never in want of money and always carried a few extra bills to pass to the outstretched hand of a beggar or drop into the hat of a street musician.

Melvin had slowly climbed his way up the ladder of the financial world, working his way to the very top, and then rammed up against a cold-hearted bitch of a boss who liked to see him squirm for her own twisted benefit. By now he should have been a partner in his firm. Instead, Mrs. Olivia Crabapple (recently divorced, she kept the last name as she liked the sound of it) loomed over him, devouring him with her shadow and stalling his career with her greed. Why not take credit for the miracles that Melvin worked when he allowed you so readily?

It was common knowledge you could walk all over Melvin, and he’d simply stand up, wipe the grime off his suit, and apologize for standing in your way. Too many people took advantage of this. His wife, the screaming cream queen of lawn boys, got half of everything. Crabapple rode his wave to wealth. Melvin, he hated to admit, had become something of a joke.

And here he sat, staring dreamily at the form of the redheaded pretty waitress at his favorite outdoor cafe, wondering what her hair would feel like if he ran his fingers through it and watching the dimples form at the corner of her mouth as she smiled and took the orders of a table of laughing customers. This cafe was his favorite, he knew, only because she worked there.

She began to turn, and he looked quickly away before she could catch him staring. It had happened once before, and at the time, Melvin thought he was going to vomit. His body had wanted to reject his chef salad like women rejected him: with a huge, retching gag. Rejection had been his middle name since elementary school, but he still wasn’t used to it. He knew that his ex wife had only married him because she smelled his money the way monkeys smelled bananas. He had been her money tree, and she had been more than happy to pluck the green right off of him. Then she’d peeled the shorts right off of the lawn boy and got a good taste of THAT particular banana.

Melvin didn’t think his waitress had the capability of sniffing the dollar signs on him. She looked too pure, too innocent, and therefor, had no reason to be attracted to him because he knew the only thing he had to offer was money. Her dimples clued him in to her innocence. No woman with dimples and a smile so bright and disarming could have an evil or manipulative bone her in perfect body.

“Anything else, Mr. MacMuffin?” his waitress asked. She must have walked over after finishing the the orders at the table of guffawing fat men. He hated the way his name sounded coming out of her mouth in her sweet musical voice; his last name had been the butt of so many jokes, he could only remember a third of them and the third had to number in the hundreds of thousands. He turned to face her, his throat tightening as he gazed upon her smiling beauty.

“N... nothing. Thank you. Just the check,” he stammered and gave her a weak smile in return. She winked.

“Ok, be right back with the check, sweetie.”

Dammit. He frowned as he watched her walk away in her cute green apron, her hair tied in a ponytail with a green ribbon to match. Why did he always have to be such a goddamn loser? He sighed. One day, he told himself, one day he’d gather up the courage to ask her out. And then he’d have the courage to not spew his meal all over her when she told him nope, no thanks, maybe some other time.

What he needed, he thought, was Dorothy to come skipping along the yellow brick road (probably yellow with urine as this was the city) and bring him to the Wizard, so he could ask for some courage. Then his problems would be solved. He glanced up and down the street from his table. No Dorothy. Not even Toto. He was shit out of luck yet again.

His waitress brought him the bill, told him to have a nice day, and was quickly waved over to the table of fat guys, still laughing over some lame joke, needing more beer. Melvin didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. Frowning, he left the cash on the table with a healthy tip for his waitress and made his way into the afternoon.

***

The afternoon gave way to evening. Mrs. Crabapple left for the night after ranting at Melvin, calling him names until she was red in the face, grabbing the new financial graphs for their biggest client out of his hands, and demanding that he start from scratch tomorrow. Melvin knew that she was merely going to take the graphs and claim them as her own, taking more credit for his work during her meeting with the Board of Directors. To hell with it. He didn’t care.

He turned off his computer and stared at the blank screen for a few moments. At times like this, depression threatened to swell upon him and crush him with one devastating blow to the skull. BAM! And that would be the end of it. He almost wished it would come. He listened to the seconds ticking away on his Rolex. How many seconds of his life had been wasted away at times like this, sitting and feeling sorry for himself, for his sorry state of affairs, and doing nothing about it?

Too much.

He decided it was time to go book hunting. As a hobby, he liked to search for rare or unique books; they didn’t even have to be worth anything as long as they offered some kind of interesting jewel for him to unearth in the pages between their worn and dusty covers. The last book he’d found was a diary of a man who claimed to be a werewolf, and that had proved to be some interesting reading, especially as the man went into graphic detail of his animalistic sexual encounters. He recalled his eyes burning through the words, flipping from one page to the next, a pleasurable throbbing coming from the crotch of his pants as his arousal became evident, and then disgust at the accounts of the man’s eating of his victims, sometimes right after he’d coupled with them. Melvin doubted he’d find anything as page-turning as that, but half the fun was searching for the books anyway.

Someone had told him of a rare book store, tucked away and relatively unknown by even the city’s most ardent rare book seekers, and this is where Melvin headed in his BMW, aware that he’d be driving in a part of the city where a BMW would stick out like a sore thumb. He figured he wouldn’t be there long enough to get it stolen. Anyway, no time like now to start working up that courage he so desperately needed.

He pulled to the curb at the address he’d been given. All the buildings looked seedy, dark and foreboding. A look of decay hung over them, staining the bricks and casting a murky light over the dusty windows in the darkening night. He looked at the writing on his notepad, double checking that he was in the right place. Satisfied that he was, he stepped out of his car into the brisk night. He locked the BMW behind him with a push on his keypad, the car uttering an electronic beep.

No markings or signs pointed him in the right direction, and all the store fronts looked the same. He scratched the back of his head. Melvin liked to have an excuse to stick his fingers in his hair, assuring himself that it was still there; of all the things that had happened to him, at least he wasn’t bald. He looked from door to door, wondering which was the right one.

He’d have to blindly pick one and choose. No guts, no glory.

Being a Rolling Stones fan, he picked the door painted black, the paint peeling in strips at the top and bottom like picked-over scabs. He figured it was his best bet anyway since it most appeared to match the address he’d been given. A swaying handwritten sign proclaiming the shop was “Open” hung in a shadowy window.

Melvin pushed his way through the door and knew he’d made a mistake as soon as he took a step inside. A few books sat on the shelves that lined the store walls, but these were far outnumbered by jars of strange looking ingredients. Melvin tossed a nervous glance to his right at one of these jars, one that seemed to be full of eyeballs. One of the eyes floated in the greenish fluid, turning to glare at him. Melvin began to back away, his hand reaching behind him to find the door handle so he could make his exit.

“I can help you,” a sensuous voice rang from the back of the store. Melvin paused and chanced a look towards the voice. A tall, dark-haired woman stood, her hands on her hips, a solemn expression on her face. She wore a black dress, and stripes of white streaked through her hair, you know, your typical Goth type. Melvin thought she bore a passing resemblance to Elvira, only the woman at the back of store was the most exotic looking person he’d ever seen. It was impossible to tell her nationality from her caramel-colored skin and her slightly slanted and stunningly blue eyes.

“Excuse me?” he replied.

“I can help you,” she repeated. Her cold eyes looked over him, up and down. Melvin felt naked under her penetrating gaze. Her voice was persuasive, somehow hypnotic, and Melvin found himself believing her without even knowing what she was talking about.

The woman had been waiting for him, and she took him in with her eyes. He wasn’t so bad. Lose the glasses and slap on a few pounds of muscle, and he’d be a regular sexy beast. However, his lack of confidence was evident in his hunched shoulders and nervous eyes. This was something she’d have no trouble overcoming; her powers seemed to grow by the day. Confidence was something that SHE didn’t lack.

“How?” he said. The woman smiled, her lips peeling back to reveal some sharp looking teeth. They shone in the pallid light cast by an ancient lamp.

“Fate brought you into my store. You have trouble with women.”

“How’d...?” Melvin began. Was it that obvious? Could she tell just by looking at him what a pathetic loser he was? Things were worse than he’d realized. He straightened his glasses. She was making fun of him; he was sure of it.

“Oh, Mr. Melvin MacMuffin, are you always so insecure? So full of doubt?” the woman purred from the other side of the room. Her voice slipped past his defenses and caressed his heart.

“You know my name?” he said, unable to take his eyes off her.

“Look around you, Mel. I’m a fucking witch! I know all sorts of shit,” she said with a cackling laugh, throwing her head back, her long black hair flowing around her shoulders. Entranced, Melvin could only watch her.

“Come with me,” she said, beckoning him with a long finger. Melvin did so in rambling steps, his throat feeling suddenly very dry. The floating eye watched him silently from its place in the jar. Melvin cast a few glances around him as he approached, seeing monstrosities and creatures of all sorts floating in liquids all colors of the rainbow in jars of all sizes. They seemed to watch his progress with open, unblinking eyes.

“Follow me,” the witch told him and slipped through an open doorway and up a small flight of stairs. The stairway was narrow and felt crooked, the wallpaper cracked and peeling in places; Melvin felt the need to place his hands against the walls to steady himself as he walked up.

The self-proclaimed witch led him into a small room. It must have been her bedroom because a bed was in one corner, and a dresser sat close to it, a large mirror reflecting his pale expression back at Melvin as he walked into the room. On the opposite wall, a tall cabinet stood, beakers and bottles littering its shelves. It was this cabinet that the witch approached, her long black dress gliding on the floor behind her.

She opened the cabinet door and pulled out a blue bottle. It seemed to pulse with a kind of electric power in her hands, and she popped open the cork and inhaled. A thin veil of wispy smoke drifted from the open bottle and wrapped her head in a smoky halo. A crooked grin slid over her face.

“Love juice, Melvin. Drink this and you will become irresistible to any woman you so desire,” she said, her voice dancing around him, touching his face, slipping under his skin and propelling him towards her. Melvin walked over in a daze, his hand out to take the bottle from her, clutching and unclutching the empty air as he approached.

“It’s still missing an ingredient,” the witch said, putting the bottle behind her back, warding Melvin off with her free hand by pushing it against his chest. Her blue eyes sparkled. She would enjoy toying with this one. He was like a puppy with his big hopeful eyes and harmless nature. Why not cuddle?

“Ingredient?” Melvin asked. His head felt a little dizzy, drunk almost. He blinked, trying to find that foundation inside of him that kept his inhibitions and logic at the forefront of his thoughts when he felt both trying to slip away after a few drinks. Only, tonight he hadn’t had anything to drink. He figured that the woman, the one who claimed to be a witch, had something to do with his lightheadedness. She was intoxicating.

The witch leaned in and whispered into Melvin’s ear, her hand moving up from his chest and stroking his hair. Her body brushed against his, and Melvin became very aware of her breasts pressing into his chest. He began to tremble in fear and anticipation. What was she up to?

“To make this potion yours and only yours, you must add your own special essence,” she said and licked his ear lobe with a flick of her tongue. Melvin tensed.

“Essence?” he croaked.

“Your semen. Cum. Spunk. Jizz. Baby batter.”

She ticked the names off her fingers, punctuating each word with a smirk, and continued, “Whatever you want to call it, the potion has to have it to work.” Her free hand roamed along his back, took a hold of his ass and pushed his crotch against her thigh. She rubbed against him with her leg, feeling the heat building through his pants.

“Why don’t you let me help you get it out?” she cooed, and her tongue was in his ear, circling and tickling him. Every muscle in Melvin’s body clenched, but he made no attempt to escape her clutches. Things like this never happened to him; being seduced by an exotic and beautiful woman, a complete stranger, was out of the question. Could this really be happening? Doubts mounted in his mind; panic began to set in. Should he leave now while he still could?

Then the witch slipped a hand down his pants, took a hold of his hardening manhood, and made his decision for him. He’d never get a chance like this again. Might as well enjoy it, right?

She began to stroke him slowly in his pants, and Melvin’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped, his tongue lolling inside of his mouth. Oh shit, he was going to shoot his shot right now!

“No, no, bad boy,” the witch gripped him hard, her long nails digging into his sensitive tissue, and Melvin’s pleasure was lost in a bolt of pain. He grabbed her arm, trying to get her to let go. The witch placed the blue bottle of love juice back on the shelf and used her newly freed hand to lightly slap Melvin on the face.

“We can’t use your cum if you just shoot it all over yourself,” she chastised him. “How do you expect to satisfy anyone if you lose it within twenty seconds?”

Her grip lessened on his erection and began to work on him again with swift sweet strokes. Her other hand began to unbutton the front of his pants. Melvin took some big, gulping breaths. His heart fluttered in his chest.

The witch kissed him, her lips encasing his, her tongue slipping out and licking his lips, her breath warm on his face. Melvin felt the dizziness in his head threaten to buckle his knees and swat him out of his reverie. He clenched his eyes, trying to focus, feeling her hands roaming and stroking him, her lips on his own, her body pressed against his.

She undid his pants and slid them to his ankles. He felt her body work against his, grinding, slipping down to her knees. Her hands dipped into his boxers and fished out his straining boner. Melvin hoped to God she didn’t giggle at its size. He was average-sized, or so he’d read, but a woman like this probably could have any kind of dick she wanted. Could she be satisfied with something merely average? He thought not.

“Melvin, women are going to be eating out of your hands. You could have the smallest dick in the world and they will beg you to stick it in them and then scream when you make them cum,” her voice rose up from below him, soothing him, her hands rubbing his thighs. Melvin sighed. A man like him... worshipped by women? It seemed impossible. After all the pain he’d gone through, the miseries heaped upon him, didn’t he deserve a little bit in life? Of everyone he knew, didn’t HE deserve to have some happiness?

As if in answer, the witch took him in her mouth, her black hair bobbing, her lips slipping around his erection and down to the root. Melvin gasped and his eyes popped open. Her hand began to glide up and down his pole, guiding him in and out of her mouth with expert strokes. Melvin sucked in air through his gnashed teeth, feeling pleasure shoot through him in waves that he’d never before experienced.

He wrapped his hands around her head, his fingers sliding into her soft hair as she made love to him with her mouth. Melvin began to see stars, fireworks invisible to anyone but him. His head felt light. He felt as if he was floating off the floor, through the ceiling, through the night air into a flurry of stars. Was this the witch’s doing? Had she hypnotized him? Or was it simply a level of pleasure he’d never experienced before propelling him to new heights?

She began to speed up, and Melvin felt himself lose complete control. His euphoria swam around him in a colorful haze, and then he was falling, the Earth rising up to meet him, the ground once again under his feet, and his cock spurting strands of white gooey cum into the witch’s open mouth.

Finally, Melvin’s legs lost their strength, and he collapsed to the floor, his muscles turning to jelly. His glasses skirted off his nose and skidded to the floor. The witch stood up, her mouth still full of his seed, and took the blue bottle off the shelf. She spat Melvin’s load into the bottle, placed a finger over it and shook it viciously. Her breasts jiggled a little as she did so, and surprising himself, Melvin felt a tiny stirring from his limp penis.

“Shake well,” she said, wiping her chin with her sleeve. She held the bottle up to her eyes and regarded it for a moment.

“Perfect,” she said and turned to him, “Get on your knees.”

Her tone of voice told Melvin that this was an order, not a request, and he pulled himself to his knees before her, head bowed, as if in prayer. The witch slid one strap of her dress over her shoulder and then the second strap over her other shoulder. Her long black dress fell with a quiet rustle, exposing her nakedness.

Her body drew a gasp from Melvin. It was breathtaking. She was no witch; she was a goddess, and she would make him her slave. No mere mortal could hold a man so ultimately in her grasp with such a heavenly body. He was helpless before her.

Snatching some of these thoughts out of Melvin’s head like snowflakes on her tongue, the witch smiled. He had quite the imagination. Very cute.