Chapter 15: Portal Pandemonium
The desert air was still warm, carrying the scent of blooming night-blooming jasmine, but inside Jan’s suite, the atmosphere was pure, crackling anticipation. Fatima scowled at her phone, then showed the screen to Jan and Brigid. It was a photo: Zack Kreuger, beaming with a mixture of pride and sheer astonishment, held aloft a decent-sized bass. Surrounding him, caught in various states of celebration, were Hank, Mike with baby Rick strapped to his chest, Cameron, Aaron, Liam, Charley, Jason, and Freddie. Hank had a beer in his other hand, his free arm slung around Mike’s shoulders. They were on the dock of a Chicago lakehouse, the city skyline a hazy silhouette in the twilight behind them.
“Awww,” Jan cooed, her eyes lighting up. “Look at his face. He’s so proud.”
“He should be,” Fatima said, a smirk playing on her lips. “Hank said he spent four hours teaching him to cast. The man has the patience of a saint.”
Brigid, sprawled on a chaise lounge with a contented, post-massage glow, squinted at the picture. “Didn’t Mara promise Zack a blowjob if he caught something?”
“She did,” Jan confirmed, her grin widening into something predatory. “She didn’t think Zack could catch a cold.”
Fatima arched an eyebrow. “You have that look, Jan. The ‘Red Tornado’ is about to touch down.”
“Damn right I am,” Jan said, snatching the phone. “We’re leaving tomorrow. We need a proper send-off. And Mara needs to pay her debts.”
Brigid sat up, a flicker of her old academic interest in her eyes, now overlaid with a new, sensual confidence. “Portaling that many people would be a significant expenditure of energy. The Féth Fiada is stable, but my reserves aren’t infinite.”
“You’re an Archimedes, Brigid-Bear,” Jan said, waving a hand. “Do some math. Make it efficient. This is for love. And blow jobs.”
Two hours later, the Grand Ballroom of the spa had been transformed. The chandelier of silvered vines glowed with a soft, internal light. A lavish buffet of succulent meats, crisp vegetables, exotic fruits, and an entire table dedicated to desserts dominated one wall. The air smelled of roasted spices and honey. Jan had worked her magic in more ways than one; a subtle, shimmering barrier along the walls and ceiling muffled all sound, sealing in whatever was to come.
The women were gathered, a spectrum of anticipation. Stacy, resplendent in a silk kaftan, chatted with Annie, who cradled Sophie the kitten in her purse. Katie “Boom Boom” Manelli, in her signature black lace, was examining the structural integrity of a champagne flute stand with a critical eye. Ginny and Molly held hands, whispering and giggling. Yukio and Amy stood near the dessert table, Amy wide-eyed, Yukio looking poised for mischief. Bethany, out of her charcoal suit and in a sleek pink dress that matched her hair, chatted with Nora, who looked effortlessly perfect in emerald silk. Rebecca stood with Aisling and a faintly shimmering, politely smiling Lady Eleanor. Casey tapped her foot, her eyes on the door. Mara leaned against the bar, swirling a glass of whiskey, looking amused and skeptical.
Jan clapped her hands. The room fell silent. “Ladies! Thank you for coming to our little pre-departure bash. Before we get to the fun, we have some business.” She nodded to Brigid.
Brigid, standing near the mirrored wall, made a series of quick, precise gestures with her fingers. Equations glowed faintly blue in the air before her, then dissolved. She extended a hand, and the photo from Fatima’s phone erupted from the wall, projected ten feet tall and crystal clear. There was Zack, grinning like a kid on Christmas, holding his fish aloft.
A collective “Awwww” rippled through the women.
“Now,” Jan said, strolling over to Mara at the bar. She put an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Counselor. As a officer of the court, you understand the importance of a binding verbal contract, yes?”
Mara took a sip of her whiskey, her sharp eyes glinting. “I do.”
“And did you, in front of multiple witnesses—including my very sober self—state, and I quote, ‘Zack, if you catch anything bigger than a minnow on that trip, I will give you the best blowjob of your life’?”
Mara didn’t blush. She just smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. “I believe I did. And I intend to honor that agreement. When I get home.”
Jan’s smile turned wicked. “Why wait?” She looked at Brigid. “Bear? The gentlemen, if you please. I believe they’re still on Hank’s dock.”
Brigid didn’t hesitate. The new, unleashed part of her reveled in the raw display of power. She raised both hands, her green eyes flashing. She didn’t draw symbols; she seemed to physically grasp the fabric of space itself, her fingers curling as if around a curtain. With a grunt of effort, she ripped.
A vertical slit of blinding white light tore the air in the center of the ballroom. Through it came the smell of lake water, beer, and male camaraderie. Sound rushed in—laughter, the slosh of water—and then bodies.
Hank stumbled through first, off-balance, still clutching his bottle of beer. “Whoa, what the hell—“
Right behind him was Mike, the portal’s momentum spinning him. He clutched the baby carrier to his chest, little Rick blinking sleepily against his shoulder. Then came Cameron, caught mid-laugh, then Aaron, Liam, Charley, Jason, Freddie, and finally Zack, who tripped on the edge of a Persian rug and landed on his knees, looking up in utter bewilderment at the sea of women staring at him.
The portal snapped shut behind them with a sound like a thunderclap swallowed by cotton.
Silence. The men stood in a disheveled cluster, smelling of fish and outdoors, blinking in the opulent, perfumed light of the ballroom. They were still in their fishing clothes—flannel, jeans, old jackets.
Jan stepped forward, her voice a purr that cut through the quiet. “Five seconds, Mara. Get naked so Zack can claim his prize.”
Understanding dawned on Mara’s face. She looked from Jan’s devilish grin, to the giant projected image of her jubilant fiancé, to Zack himself, kneeling on the rug looking adorably confused. She threw her head back and laughed, a rich, unfettered sound. “You unbelievable witch.”
“Lawyer,” Jan countered sweetly. “A deal’s a deal.”
Mara didn’t need five seconds. She set her whiskey glass down with a definitive click. Her eyes locked on Zack’s. A challenge, and a promise. Her fingers went to the button of her blouse.
A cheer went up from the women. Stacy whooped. Katie whistled.
Mara’s blouse fell open. She shrugged it off, revealing a simple black lace bra. Her skirt followed, pooling at her feet. She stood in her underwear, all sleek lines and confident grace, and then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down slowly, her eyes never leaving Zack’s. Then the bra. She stood naked before everyone, and the Power of Exposure that all Green Moon initiates possessed—a subtle magic Jan and Fatima had long since learned to modulate—washed over the room. It wasn’t a command, but an enhancement. Awe mixed with pure, unadulterated lust.
Zack scrambled to his feet, his face flushed. “Mara, you don’t have to—”
“Shut up, Zack,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “You earned it.” She closed the distance between them, her high heels clicking on the floor. She dropped to her knees before him, her hands going to his belt buckle.
The sight was the trigger. The ballroom erupted.
Fatima let out a sharp, delighted squeal as Hank, finally processing where he was and why, dropped his beer bottle with a clatter. He lunged for her, his big hands grabbing her waist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, depositing her squarely in the middle of the dessert table amongst the chocolate-dipped strawberries and cream puffs. A raspberry torte squished under her thigh. He didn’t care. His mouth crashed down on hers, hungry and possessive. One thick, calloused hand shoved under her flowy skirt, past the waistband of her panties. He found her already wet. Fatima gasped into the kiss, her legs wrapping around his hips, her back arching into the platter of petits fours. “Yallah, Hank,” she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders as his fingers dove deep inside her.
Against a marble column near the buffet, Mike and Casey found each other. Mike had one arm still cradling Rick, who was now awake and watching the lights with fascination. Casey’s hands framed Mike’s face, and she pulled him into a kiss that was all pent-up need. It was deep, messy, and tasted of the homemade beer Hank had brewed. Her tongue swept into his mouth, and he met her with equal hunger, his free hand tangling in her short dark hair. They kissed like they were starved for it, their bodies pressed tight, the baby a warm, gurgling bundle between them.
Rebecca floated towards Charley, her shyness evaporating in the charged atmosphere. Charley, sweet, dorky Charley who had been an Auditor, met her halfway. He took her face in his ink-stained hands and kissed her with a tenderness that still held the memory of cosmic power. His thumbs brushed her cheeks as she melted against him, her pregnant belly a soft pressure between them.
Cameron Smythe, ever the composed Ranger, surveyed the sudden orgy with amused detachment before his gaze found Jan. He sidled up to her as she watched Mara take Zack’s hardening cock into her mouth with a slow, deliberate expertise that made several onlookers groan. “Interesting trip with your girlfriends, Red?” Cameron asked, his blue eyes gleaming.
Jan leaned back against him, feeling the solid, muscular plane of his chest. “The best, Ranger,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him. “Got my sister laid by a masseuse and now I’m throwing an interdimensional victory party for a fish. Standard week.”
He chuckled, his hands settling on her hips. “And where’s my victory?”
She grinned, reaching back to stroke him through his jeans. “You didn’t catch a fish. But I’m feeling charitable.”
Across the room, Brigid watched the chaos with a serene, catlike satisfaction. The energy in the room was a palpable thing—lust, love, laughter, a little confusion. It was life, amplified. She felt a warm pulse through the triad bond, a surge of amused arousal from Will and Sarah, who were undoubtedly getting a psychic front-row seat. She sent back a pulse of pure, unadulterated joy.
Annie and Aaron had found a quieter corner near a potted fern. Aaron was kissing a trail down Annie’s neck while she giggled, Sophie the kitten having been carefully placed inside her open purse on a nearby chair. “The things I do for you, Aaron Sweeney,” Annie murmured, unbuttoning his flannel shirt.
Liam found Bethany admiring the destruction of the dessert table where Hank and Fatima were now fully engaged, Hank’s jeans around his ankles, Fatima’s legs locked around his back as he drove into her with slow, powerful thrusts that made the table shudder. “See something you like, Agent Pendragon?” Liam murmured in her ear, his Scottish brogue thick.
Bethany turned, her pink hair brushing his cheek. “I like efficiency. He’s not wasting any time.” She grabbed Liam’s hand and placed it firmly on her breast. “Don’t you waste any either.”
Jason and Amy had retreated to a plush divan. Jason was kissing her with a gentle reverence, his hands cupping her face. Amy was guiding one of his hands under her skirt, her breath hitching. “It’s okay,” she whispered against his lips. “Everyone’s… busy.”
Freddie and Yukio were already further along. Yukio had pushed him against the mirrored wall, her mouth on his, her hands unzipping his fly with practiced ease. “No more talking, Brit,” she commanded, sinking to her knees.
Jan turned in Cameron’s arms, her mouth finding his. It was a familiar, hungry kiss, all tongue and teeth. She could taste the lake air on him. Her hands went to his belt, undoing it with swift, sure movements. “No fancy stuff tonight, soldier,” she breathed, biting his lower lip. “Just fuck me. Right here.”
He obliged, spinning her around to face the room. He bent her over a small, ornate side table, sending a vase of orchids crashing to the floor. One hand fisted in her short red hair, the other guided himself to her entrance. He pushed inside her in one smooth, deep stroke, drawing a sharp, approving cry from Jan that cut through the symphony of moans and gasps.
Mara, meanwhile, was proving herself a woman of her word. Zack was braced against the wall, his head thrown back, eyes shut tight. Mara’s head bobbed in his lap, her technique relentless, one hand cupping his balls, the other stroking what her mouth couldn’t take. Her engagement ring glinted in the chandelier light. A soft, choked moan escaped Zack’s lips. “Oh, god, Mara… I’m gonna…”
She didn’t stop. She took him deeper, her throat working, and let him finish with a ragged shout, swallowing every pulse.
As Zack slumped against the wall, spent, Mara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked over at Jan, a triumphant, defiant spark in her eyes. Jan, being fucked hard over the table by Cameron, gave her a thumbs up.
The party, as Jan had intended, was truly getting going. The air grew thick with the sounds of skin on skin, whispered encouragements, sharp cries, and low groans. The scent of sex and spilled dessert wine mingled with the jasmine from the ruined floral arrangements. It was chaos. It was communion. It was, for this protected, soundproofed moment in a desert ballroom, a perfect and messy celebration of all the strange, magical, and profoundly human connections that bound them together.
It was, for this protected, soundproofed moment in a desert ballroom, a perfect and messy celebration of all the strange, magical, and profoundly human connections that bound them together.
Across the room, Ronan Byrne’s face was the color of a ripe tomato. He stood frozen near a potted palm, his winter-sky eyes wide as saucers, darting from Hank pounding Fatima on the dessert table to Mara now climbing onto a compliant Zack against the wall. Aisling followed his gaze, a slow, understanding smile spreading across her face.
“Feeling a bit overwhelmed, are we?” she murmured, sliding her hand into his. Her Dublin lilt was a soft counterpoint to the grunts and moans surrounding them.
“It’s… a lot,” Ronan admitted, his voice hoarse. He squeezed her hand like a lifeline. “I mean, it’s brilliant for them, but I’m not sure I…”
“You don’t have to perform for an audience, my love,” Aisling said, her green eyes softening. She tugged him gently away from the central chaos, toward a curtained alcove that led to a secluded, plant-filled balcony. “Come with me.”
He went willingly, relief flooding his features. The thick velvet curtain fell behind them, muffling the cacophony. Out here, under a blanket of desert stars and the soft glow of string lights, the world shrank to just the two of them and the gentle splash of a small fountain. The scent of night-blooming flowers was a clean perfume after the musk of the ballroom.
Aisling didn’t speak. She turned him to face her, her fingers going to the buttons of his simple cotton shirt. She undid them slowly, one by one, revealing his lean, wiry chest. She pressed her lips to his collarbone, then his sternum, her mouth warm and sure.
“You’re shaking,” she whispered against his skin.
“Just… keen,” he breathed, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His kiss was different from the ones inside—less frantic, more reverent. It tasted of nervousness and deep, abiding want.
She responded by fumbling with his belt, her own need quickening. His trousers pooled at his feet. He was already hard, his cock standing thick and eager against his stomach. Aisling wrapped her fingers around him, giving him a slow, firm stroke that made his breath catch.
“For me?” she asked, her voice a husky challenge.
“Always for you,” he gasped.
She pushed him back until his shoulders met the cool stucco wall. Then she dropped to her knees on the flagstone, the fabric of her dress pooling around her. She didn’t tease. She took him into her mouth in one smooth, deep glide, her tongue swirling around the head before she sank down, taking him fully. Ronan cried out, a sharp, shattered sound lost in the fountain’s whisper. His hands flew to her black hair, tangling in the long strands, not to guide her but to hold on as her head began to bob with a ruthless, practiced rhythm.
Inside, the celebration evolved. Ginny and Molly had found a plush velvet loveseat away from the most vigorous action. They faced each other, knees touching, their conversation a private bubble.
“Do you ever just look around and think, ‘how is this my life?’” Ginny whispered, her sardonic smile soft around the edges.
Molly laughed, a light, genuine sound. “Every single day.” She reached out, tracing Ginny’s jawline. “Especially when I get to do this.”
She leaned in and kissed her, a sweet, exploring kiss that quickly deepened. Ginny’s hands came up to cup Molly’s breasts through her silk blouse, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked into hard points. Molly moaned into her mouth, her fingers slipping under Ginny’s skirt, finding her bare and already wet.
“No underwear,” Molly breathed, breaking the kiss, her eyes dark.
“A girl can hope,” Ginny replied, arching into her touch.
They sank into the cushions, a tangle of limbs and whispered endearments. Ginny pushed Molly’s blouse off her shoulders, lowering her mouth to a taut nipple, sucking hard while her fingers worked between Molly’s legs. Molly’s back arched, a low, continuous moan escaping her as Ginny’s tongue and fingers drove her toward a swift, trembling peak right there on the loveseat, surrounded by friends yet utterly lost in each other.
Vivian Chase watched it all from a high-backed armchair in a shadowy corner. A serene, almost blissful smile graced her lips. The raw sexual energy in the room was a palpable haze, a shimmering, auratic soup of lust, love, and release. To her half-succubus senses, it was a banquet.
She stood, her movements languid. She untied the silk sash of her emerald robe and let it slide from her shoulders. It puddled at her feet. She was naked beneath, her body pale and perfect in the low light. She stretched, arms overhead, a cat luxuriating in a sunbeam, but she was basking in something far more nourishing.
She could feel it soaking into her pores—the sharp, hungry pulses from Jan and Cameron; the deep, loving waves from Rebecca and Charley; the frantic, delicious energy from Hank and Fatima. It flowed into her, replenishing her reserves, smoothing the edges of her eternal hunger. She closed her eyes, letting it fill her. It was gentle, consensual. She was not taking, but receiving what was freely given into the atmosphere. She’d need the sustenance for the long flight home.
Stacy Steinberg moved through the chaos with the effortless grace of a fitness instructor navigating a crowded gym. She zeroed in on Mike and Casey, who were now against the column, Mike’s hand under Casey’s skirt, Casey’s teeth grazing his neck, little Rick still babbling contentedly between them.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Stacy said, her voice warm but practical. She gently but firmly extracted Rick from the baby carrier strapped to Mike’s chest. The infant gurgled, reaching for a lock of her dark hair. “Uncle Godfrey needs a break from being the chaperone.”
Godfrey, having found a quiet spot under the demolished dessert table, was indeed asleep, paws twitching as he dreamt of more interesting things than human coupling.
Nora materialized at Stacy’s side, her movements silent and precise. “I am proficient in infant care protocols,” the redhead said, holding out her arms. Her Irish lilt was soft. “My systems are optimized for ambulatory rocking.”
Stacy handed Rick over without hesitation. Nora cradled the baby against her synthetic chest, immediately beginning a smooth, swaying motion. Rick’s eyes drifted shut.
“Now,” Stacy said, turning her attention back to Mike and Casey. She placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder, her touch firm. “Do you two have room for one more?”
Mike blinked, his brain slowly processing the question through a haze of lust. Casey looked from Mike’s dazed expression to Stacy’s open, hopeful face. A slow, wicked smile spread across Casey’s lips. She knew about Stacy’s impossible, time-twisted love for their future adult son. This was simpler. This was now.
“Always,” Casey said, her voice husky. She grabbed the front of Stacy’s silk kaftan and pulled her in for a kiss. It was fiercer than Mike’s, all claiming tongue and sharp need.
Mike watched for a second, his goofy grin returning full force. “Okay,” he breathed, as if agreeing to the most logical thing in the world. His hands found Stacy’s hips, pulling her back against him so she was sandwiched between him and the column. He kissed the nape of her neck while Casey’s mouth claimed Stacy’s.
Katie “Boom Boom” Manelli surveyed the room with her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. Lady Eleanor floated nearby, translucent and smiling beatifically, her Victorian skirts shimmering as she enjoyed the spectacle. Godfrey snored under the table. Everyone else was paired, tripled, or otherwise engaged. Her gaze landed on Brigid O’Connor, who was leaning against the bar, watching the proceedings with a look of analytical pleasure, sipping a glass of water.
Katie sauntered over, her black lace dress whispering. “So,” she said, leaning on the bar next to Brigid. “You’re the prodigy. The Archimedes.”
Brigid took a sip. “I study applied mystical calculus, yes.”
“Right,” Katie said, her eyes roaming over Brigid’s petite frame, the confident set of her shoulders, the mouth that had just been screaming in ecstasy on a massage table hours before. “And Jan’s sister.”
“Unfortunately,” Brigid said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips.
“She’s got a talented mouth,” Katie said bluntly, nodding toward where Jan was currently being fucked doggy-style over the side table, her cries punctuating Cameron’s deep grunts. “A real gift. I’m curious. Is it a family trait?”
Brigid choked slightly on her water. She set the glass down, turning to face Katie fully. The girl’s Goth aesthetic was at odds with the fierce, curious intelligence in her eyes. “I… I have no empirical data on that.”
Katie’s smile was all sharp edges and promise. “Wanna get some? For science?” She reached out, her finger tracing the neckline of Brigid’s simple top. “I can be a very objective research assistant.”
Brigid felt a familiar, unwinding heat in her gut. It was the same reckless energy that had propelled her into the masseuse’s arms. It was fed by the low, humming satisfaction still echoing in her mind and body. "Let's rock, Boom Boom."