Magic spells tend to fall in and out of fashion with the season. And, just as it is with songs, celebrities, memes, and every other pop culture artifact, the popularity of a spell grows in direct relation to how stupid it is. Especially among the students at Wizard College, where you might hear of a spell that changes the color of only the backside of someone's school uniform and within a week the view from the back of any classroom was a rainbow of bright pink, green, orange and yellow. The young wizards called it "Colorjacking".
Then come the variations, like the spell that changed the color of someone's clothes only when they weren't looking, so even if they twisted in their seat to inspect the back of a shirt or pants they'd see nothing wrong. Of course someone always has to take it too far, and soon many an unsuspecting young woman was walking the halls with her clothes duplicating the colors of the body beneath. If she looked down at herself she'd see nothing wrong. Otherwise, the image of her invisibly supported bare breasts and darker areolas was projected on the shifting material of her blouse. Her skirt and panties looked like they were made of clear plastic, letting every other student known if she was shaved, trimmed or, in the case of Harmony Ginger, had a thick triangle of wiry brown hair between her pale thighs. That was when the school administration banned Colorjacking and all its variations under threat of expulsion.
Recently, a new spell had taken the campus by storm. It started off harmless enough with a very simple bit of magic: a tiny portal. Large portals, the kind someone could walk through and travel across the globe in an instant, were very advanced spells that took incredible strength and concentration to execute properly. But if the portal led to someplace close by and the portal was small, it was so simple that anyone could do it. It was only a matter of time before someone invented the OK Split: the wizard would make a circle with his thumb and forefinger, creating a portal between them. It was as simple an action as blowing soap bubbles between your fingers, but in this case you used the portal to play funny little jokes like make water from the faucet pour onto your friend's head from the air above them, or poke someone with your pencil from the other side of the classroom.
Of course it was sophomore Henry Pecker, with his unruly nature and twisted humor, who took the trend to an outrageous and depraved new level. In fact, he was the one who'd worked out the nude variation of colorjacking, a fact only his best friend Rob Weinie knew. For obvious reasons he couldn't tell their other best friend, Harmony Ginger.
Henry and Rob were sharing a pitcher of beer at Hattie McRabbit's, a popular bar near campus, when Henry started musing how he might take the OK Split to the dark side.
Hattie McRabbit was an ancient but kind woman who ran a clean and efficient bar, but it was her bad eyesight and trusting nature that made her bar especially popular with the students of Wizard College. Harry and Rob had enjoyed many an underage drink in her bar freshman year, but now that they were both of legal age they enjoyed the other perk of the bar: Hattie's daughter Rosie. Rosie was a lovely statuesque woman in her mid-30s, never married but never short on lovers, both men and women if the word around town was true. She had olive skin and shiny black hair that hung in waves across her shoulders and framed her strong but beautiful face. In the course of bustling around the bar, getting drinks, collecting glasses and taking food orders, her hair would sway and bounce just as the rest of her swayed and bounced: her full breasts filling out a loosely-buttoned shirt like two great cantaloupes, her tan cleavage glistening and jiggling beneath the parted cloth. Her tight but full buttocks bounced as well, nicely draped in the long swishy skirts she favored.
She was tough on students who tried to drink underage, and was known for her withering glare when a patron got too loud or handsy. But she knew how to work her assets. Rob, who lusted after her like he did nearly every woman he met, was openly staring at the impressive swell of her breasts and her high round ass. So was every other man in the bar, student and townie alike.
"Hello gentlemen," she purred, sidling up to their table. Both young men noticed how her heavy tits gave an extra bounce or two when the rest of her body came to a stop. "Another pitcher for the two fine young men who keep such a close eye on me from across the bar?"
Rob began to sputter, his face starting to match his firetruck-red hair. Henry gave Rosie an easy smile. "We just admire the way you keep bar. You're quite a sight."
She smirked and leaned closer, practically resting one heavy tit on his shoulder. "And I admire the way you look in this shirt, with the sleeves rolled up." As she said this, she rested one hand on the hard bulge of his bicep. Henry, a tall and broad boy with unruly black hair and stubble on his strong jaw, was used to this kind of attention. Not that it wasn't nice all the same.
"Another pitcher then. Especially if you're trying to get me drunk." Henry laughed, but his eyes met hers meaningfully.
"My god she wants to fuck your brains out!" Rob hissed as soon as she was out of earshot.
Henry shrugged. "She wants a good tip. Besides, I'm working on Violet Greene at the moment."
"Yeah, I'd like to give her a tip." Rob quipped, but his voice had a dreamy quality because he was watching Rosie's ass as she bounced and swayed among the tables. Henry turned to follow his gaze, unable to resist a lingering look at that sexy rump. There was no obvious panty-line, and given the tightness of her skirt at the top that meant she was presumably wearing a thong, or maybe no panties at all.
Even as his eyes took this in, Henry's mind was racing in another direction, spurred by Rob's comment.
He turned back around in his seat and watched Rob's hand slowly feel toward his glass, his eyes still on Rosie. When his fingers found the handle, they tightened and pulled the glass up to his face. He never noticed Henry's surreptitious movements under the table or his lips moving as he muttered the spell under his breath.
It wasn't until Rob started tipping the beer into his mouth and looked down the barrel of his glass that he saw it: there, rising into the swirling amber liquid from the bottom of the glass, was the fat pink head of a flaccid penis.
Rob spluttered, choking on beer as Henry quickly adjusted and brought his hands above the table. He raised his own glass to his face to hide his expression, but his eyes were watering with laughter. Some of the patrons seated nearby turned to look, but when Rob waved a hand to indicate he was OK, they all turned away just as quickly.
After a few hacking coughs, Rob rasped, "Was that your DICK in my beer?"
