Dark Mistress 6 - Recharged

No one Bridget knew encountered her before she got to the room. She might not have noticed the difference. She couldn't focus on anything but Nyxe's soft touches and squeezes through her clothing.

She fumbled with her key for a second. When she leaned over to place it, the blouse pressed against the front of her tits. She bit her lip and slid the key into its hole, turning it as the pressure against her soft mounds slid around to the sides and squeezed them together.

Nyxe's ever present touch was wonderful. Over the course of her walk here, Bridget realized she could trust her magically-imbued clothes to let her mind wade through the sensations. Bridget's sleeve helped her swing the door open. In one graceful motion, her right leg lifted and spun her into the room, and she threw the door shut behind her. Her pants moved her body in front of the chair at her desk, and she instinctively grabbed the small plastic arms as her rear was pulled back into the seat.

“Get out a piece of paper—I need you to write a little note.” Bridget pulled out some stationery. When she had a pastel gel-pen at the ready, Nyxe dictated a brief note. Bridget copied the bubbly letters onto the paper until Nyxe was finished.

“Anything I sign it with?” Bridget asked.

“No. It's perfect just like that. Now fold it up.” After three folds at the half, Bridget's shoes planted and pushed her chair away from the desk. She couldn't help but squeak a little when her pants stood her up again—she could feel the anticipation in Nyxe's motions. “Now I know there's a shoebox under here,” Nyxe said, walking Bridget next to her bed. Bridget gasped as her pant legs bent at the knees. Expecting to land on the laminated cement of the dorm floor, she put her arms out in front of her.

Her knees didn't hit. Instead, she was impossibly suspended on the toes of her shoes for a split second before her pants gently set her knees down. “Come on, Bridget. Don't you trust me yet?” Bridget's sleeves pulled her arms down in front of her.

“I do, but--” She relaxed her torso, no longer tensing against the shirt. Her sleeves moved toward the floor, and she placed her hands against the concrete, looking under the bed. “I just reacted. I didn't think you were going to let me hit—my body did.” The hips of her pants swished her butt back and forth a couple times before the delicious sting of an invisible palm rang through her backside.

“No worries. I'm going to give your body every reason to trust me. Grab that box.” Bridget smiled and did as she was told. When she pulled it out from under the bed, she pulled the top off to reveal glossy white heels. “Those are yours, are they?”

Bridget's eyes fluttered shut. Nyxe's question was accompanied by what felt like a finger, tracing itself down the center of Bridget's derriere and straight between her legs, continuing toward her clit. She finally managed what sounded like an affirmative response.

“Good taste,” Nyxe laughed. “I'll keep them in mind for later. I'll bet they accentuate your favorite attention getter, don't they?” Bridget let out a little laugh, and she felt another quick slap on her ass. “Take them out of there.” Bridget pulled the glossy shoes out and set them on the ground, half-expecting them to come to life. “Soon enough I'll be able to do things like this myself, but I don't want to risk it until I have them in place. Now grab that box and leave the rest to me.”

When Bridget did, her body was gracefully lifted into a standing pose. One of her sleeves extended the shoebox out in front of her.

“Got the note?” Nyxe asked. The pair of pink-and-white sneakers from Ms. Heyver's house had already leapt up to Bridget's desk. One of the laces coiled around the note and stuffed it inside the shoe.

“All set,” the shoes sang back in a sweet register. They leapt off the desk, hopped onto the back of Bridget's chair and leapt into the box. Bridget fumbled with it a bit.

“Don't drop me, mizz booty.” The shoes situated themselves in the box. “What's the girl like, mistress? As fun as Tiff and Gwen?”

“You'll see,” Nyxe said. “Just follow my directions. Nothing vocal until--”

“She already suspects it,” The footwear answered, wiggling around in the box. “I got it, I got it.” Just as Bridget was about to ask a question, her slacks spun her about as a blouse sleeves reached her free hand out for the box-top. “Graceful,” the pink shoes said.

“Thanks,” Bridget and Nyxe responded in unison, forcing a laugh out of both of them afterward. Bridget grabbed the top and let the rest of her body loose, trusting Nyxe to right her. There were always surprises when Nyxe navigated Bridget's body, but there were no jerking motions or uncomfortable twists. As Bridget and Gwen both noticed earlier, Nyxe's occupation of their outfits was almost like an intangible person occupied a negligible amount of space between the clothes and their skin. Once they were used to her control, their motions became natural, but flowing—almost like a dance that Nyxe herself was leading. Bridget placed the top over the shoebox.

“Later, mizz booty,” came the muffled voice from behind the cardboard. Bridget sneered at the flirtacious footwear.

“Later, sneakers.” Bridget placed the box under her arm—not entirely of her own accord—and opened her dormitory door when Nyxe extended her striped sleeve toward it.

“Gwen just passed the room,” Nyxe said to Bridget. “Yarmouth 3018.”

“Yarmouth?” Bridget frowned, shutting the door. “They stick all the music and drama weirdos in there. Are you sure you picked the right person?”

“Picked the right person for what, B?” The shrill voice put both Nyxe and Bridget into momentary shock, but thanks to the human tendency to tense up under pressure, Bridget had no problem taking over her balance. Standing across from her was a mess of bobbed black hair and too much eyeliner.

“Oh--Chelsea. Hi, Chelsea.” Bridget wasn't sure, but she swore she felt a sub-tonal groan coming from her outfit. Chelsea was kind of socially inept and a bit nosy, but Bridget found her kind of endearing. She'd

“Hey, B.” The pencil-darkened slits narrowed. “Who ya talking to?”

“Phone call.” The response from Bridget came quick and shallow. She tried to act fast, cupping her free hand over one ear and mouthing the words again in a silent echo to Chelsea. Phone call.

Sorry,  Chelsea mouthed back. Bridget smiled at her and waved as her outfit turned her down the hall toward the stairs.

“But seriously, you know what I'm saying, don't you?” Bridget continued, corroborating her cover up by continuing her phone call as she headed into the stairwell. “I think your mark is totally dull. At least tell me why you're so stuck on her.” Bridget started down the stairs, feeling her toes dance down each step without her effort. Once Bridget well away from the door to the hall, Nyxe spoke.

“Talking to me right in front of her?”

“Now you're the one who needs to trust me,” Bridget snickered. “How long were you trapped again?”

“Fifteen years.”

“These days we pretty much all have cell phones. Some of us just wear these little things in our ears—that's how I got away with that. Are you going to answer my question?”

“No,” Nyxe said. “I'm not.” Still skipping down the stairs, Bridget felt her blouse exaggerating the bounce of her chest after each step. It wasn't long before the lifting and dropping changed into complex dimples on the surface of her tits, outlining a set of slender fingers pressing and contracting, playing around her curves.

Three flights up, Chelsea tried to make sense of it. Why'd Bridget switch to a speakerphone? And who was trapped for fifteen years?

Bridget walked through the third floor of Yarmouth hall, pulling the box out from under her arm. 3030...3028...3026...

“No knock,” Nyxe's voice dripped just outside Bridget's ears. 3022... “Just drop the box when I lean you to the ground.” Bridget nodded as she passed the door to 3020. She mentally prepared herself for Nyxe's acrobatics just before her body arced and twisted in a motion toward Sarah's door. She let go of the box a little soon, and the momentum sent it sliding to the side of the door frame. Bridget's outfit sent her back to her feet, and her shoes marched her forward, double-time. An anxious whisper came from her collar. “Hang on, Brij!” Bridget couldn't help but notice how soft her footfalls were, despite her boost of speed. 3010, 3008, 3006...

Nyxe turned Bridget around the corner to the stairwell a few seconds before the a click came from the door of room 3018. Sarah's black hair was untied—slightly messy and framing her face. She stared down at the black shoebox suspiciously. After a look down both sides of the hall, she crouched with the box at arm's length. She reached out and lifted the lid like she was handling nitroglycerine. It gave like a regular box top—no strings or triggers for springy snakes and confetti bombs.

It was probably a strange thing to do—but so was sliding a box next to the door and disappearing... down the hall? If it was from someone nearby, they shut their door carefully. Sarah picked up the box and pulled the top off. Sneakers. Pink sneakers. She shut her door and sat on her bed, putting the shoebox down next to her. She grabbed one of the sneakers and examined it.

Were they used? There wasn't really any wear on them, and the trim and laces were still gleaming white. A little evidence of scuffing on the bottom, but when she looked inside, she could still see the rubberized stamp showing the size on the insole. No wear there, at all. And even more importantly...

“Six-and-a-half.” Her size. Cute sneakers in her size? She lifted the tongue and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Mystery solved...or not. She sneered when she read the single sentence on the note.

I think we're your size.

“Yeah, got it,” Sarah murmured. She went through the possibilities. Six-and-a-half was on the small side, but not so exceptionally rare that it was impossible for someone to have made a mistake. She held the tongue back and lifted her foot out of a black puffy slipper. She slid the baggy denim up her leg, revealing striped socks that went well beyond the ankle.

And oh, they were her size. Surfaces meshed like a perfect kiss, and when she pulled the laces tight, she was convinced that they were the most comfortable sneakers she'd ever worn. And then...

She snapped out of it. Who gave her these things? If they were a gift, was this sweet, or creepy?

Standing up made her forget the thought just as quickly. One foot felt as if were on gossamer--the other, a foam sponge. Creepy gift or not, she had to try the other one on. She sat back on the bed and kicked off her other black slipper. She leaned over and grabbed the other shoe.

The new shoe scent wasn't apparent—there was a gentle presence of perfume instead. She thought it could've been the box before, but she pinpointed it upon examining the second shoe. It was understated, and more seductive than flowery. Intentional. It had to be. This scent couldn't possibly have been worn in to the shoes.

Okay, so it was leaning toward gift. I think we're your size. A gift from someone with a playful sense of humor and a damned good sense of size. She squinted at her slippers. Her size was as easy as seeing a slipper or a shoe laying around.

As she went over the list of guys that had hung out in the room, she realized there were a couple possibilities. She wasn't a pledge or a big partier—but being a ruthless gamer still brought her a healthy strain of popularity. There were a couple friends of friends, but no one she had in mind.

Someone put time into this. Thought. Detail. Someone went well out of their way to get her attention, and they used shoes to do it. Someone knew her well. She stared at the sneaker, her fingertips tingling against the heel liner and sole. She shook her head, held the sneaker away from her and took a deep breath.

Where the things drugged? What the hell was so exciting about them? Was it that it seemed like someone got them just for her? Was it just the way the first fit on her, evenly hugging every square inch of...

“Ridiculous.” She tried to make herself think so, but even saying it aloud wasn't enough. There was psychological anticipation—and physical tension—building in her. Maybe it was everything: the intoxicating scent, the perfect fit, the possibility behind the gift giver...she-just-wanted-the-other-one-on. She slid her baggy pant leg up, licked her lips and let out a nervous laugh.

She could figure out why all this was happening later—after the sneaker was on. She pulled the tongue back and slipped her foot inside. A slow crescendo of relaxation went over her. She drew the laces back, and her nimble fingers worked the two ends into two loops, tightening against each other's tension. Her hands fluttered over to the other sneaker and finished tying them.

Unbelievable. It was a glass slipper kind of fit. She rocked heel to toe on them. Perfection. She stepped in front of the full-length mirror against the inside of the door. A bit of pink atop the toe-box barely peeked out from under her baggy jeans. That was kind of a shame.

There were only 20 minutes left until class. Time enough to change, but she had to do it now. She stepped toward her closet, but second-guessed herself. Showing the sneakers off RIGHT after they were mysteriously given to her might be a little much. At the same time, she didn't want to take them off. Maybe the baggy jeans were perfect.

She looked at herself in the mirror, moved her hair around a bit and smiled. She looked okay. Keep the outfit, let the hair down. If someone was really paying attention, that would be change enough. She turned around and looked over her shoulder as she stepped forward. The pink and white flashed out from under the blue denim cuffs when she walked. Perfect.

She walked to her desk and took her backpack. Before she went out the door, she flashed herself a smirk in the mirror. New sneakers needed to be broken in. She'd take the long way to class.

They were every bit as comfortable as they seemed.  She took the path though the campus to her next class, trying not to draw extra attention to her mysteriously gifted sneakers by constantly looking down. Unfortunately, as she was rounding a corner, looking down is exactly what she was doing. At exactly the same time, another student heading the other direction on a bike was texting a roomie to meet him for lunch.

Even if he wasn't playing with his phone, he would've barely had time to see her. He shouldn't have been riding so close to the building on the walking path to begin with, and he knew it. If he hit her, it would be all his fault—but he was too close. Even flying over the handlebars couldn't save her.

Still, in the world of split-second decisions, his body reacted as best it could to avoid the collision. He leaned right. With his free hand, hit the only brake he could: the front.

The sound of the approaching bike was enough to bring her head up, but by the time the brake's howl sounded, she had already thrown her body into motion.

No, she hadn't. She shut her eyes. She was waiting for the worst to happen. But she was moving. Quickly. She opened her eyes again when she felt her own body weight heaved forward and thrown to the side. She put an arm out to break her fall, but like lightning her other foot planted in front of her. She ended up in a half-crouch, one of her hands at the ground to steady her body.

The biker wasn't as lucky, but his tumble could've been worse. He landed in the grass, just off the path. He tore a short streak of grass and mud as his phone tumbled in the other direction.

Sarah stood upright and adjusted her backpack. She didn't get hit. Not only that—but she didn't even dive into the grass to dodge the bike rushing up on her. Was he okay?

“Are you okay?” Said a concerned, slightly raspy baritone behind her. She turned around to see a guy in a grass-stained hoodie and jeans getting off the ground and brushing himself off. And she'd been staring at her shoes the whole time. It was her fault.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!” Sarah stepped over to the phone and picked it up. The guy picked his bike up and brushed his brown hair away from his smiling face. Sarah smiled back at him. “Are you okay?”

“Don't apologize. I shouldn't have been on the path that close around the corner. Then I had my phone, and...” He looked her over. She was cute, but she didn't really dress like she knew it. “Seriously, you're okay? I thought for sure I was going to hit you!”

“Still standing.” She wouldn't admit that she didn't know exactly how that was. “How about your bike?” He lifted the back tire up and pushed the pedal. The wheel spun free, and he dropped the tire again.

“Looks like I'm good--outside of breaking out the stain remover.” He laughed. Sarah smiled back at him. “Sorry to scare the crap out of you. Good thing you've got cat-like reflexes.” Without meaning to, she looked down at her feet and pulled back her pant legs just enough to see the bright sneakers. “Hey, fancy footwear.”

“Thanks. Good traction too, I guess.” Both of them laughed. “I gotta get to class, though—sorry again for running into you.”

“Hey, like I said: my fault. Don't apologize.” He flashed a grin at her one more time before he stuffed his phone in his pocket. “See you again, probably. Not so close to the building next time, I promise.” He took off on his bike, and Sarah chuckled to herself as she continued toward class.

He only had a phone in his hand the whole time. You didn't think to give him your number? At first, Sarah thought someone whispered it to her, but it was so quiet—so subtle. Plus there was no one near her. Outside the stray guy on the bicycle the path was empty, at least until the classes in the hall let out.

He was kind of cute--maybe she was sub-consciously trying to tell herself something. Or maybe it was the sneakers. All of a sudden she had an ego; maybe getting a silly gift was really going to her head. Of course she didn't think to give him her number. Dismount a guy from his bike and win his heart? She sneered. Is that how it works?

But it didn't end there. She played the moment through her head again and again while she spent the class daydreaming. How was it that she didn't get hit? That front tire seemed right on top of her when she finally looked up.

He did crash, but even so, her landing—pulling her foot under her to catch her balance right after she leapt out of the way—that seemed impossible to her. And the leap? She didn't even remember making the leap. In her memory it felt a lot more like a slide than a leap, but she couldn't be sure. What she was sure of was that she had given up. She had closed her eyes and expected to be hit, and a second later she was out of harm's way, crouched over the ground and untouched. How did that happen?

The more she thought about it, the more she certain she became that she had a memory of being pushed—or pulled—out of the way of her collision course with the bike. Every couple of minutes, she looked under the little fold-out desk at her pink-and-white sneakers.

She'd chalked most of the last hour up the charisma of the shoes, especially in virtue of the way she received them. The flood of emotions at the beginning? She'd never gotten such a random gift before, let alone one so perfect for her. Nothing strange about that. Obsessing over them from the time she left the dorm room? See number one. They were adorable sneakers, and they were soooo comfortable. Worth making a fuss over.

The sidewalk? Admittedly a little strange, but certainly not impossible. It was a split-second reaction, and she was just over-thinking it after the fact. Her body obviously did what it needed to in order to get her out of harm's way, even if her head didn't have time to assign a story to it. Nothing weird about that.

That only left the voice. It wasn't as easy as telling herself it was in her head. She already had an inner monologue. It was running all the time, assessing cursory details and helping her plan what to say—and it certainly didn't come up with things like this:

He only had a phone in his hand the whole time. You didn't think to give him your number?

Those two sentences interrupted that usual inner voice, and it wasn't a thought interrupting another thought. She knew the difference; this was something she heard.

She was still thinking about it after class, but on her way home she was determined to keep her eyes in front of her. No more amnesiac ninja bike dodging. She took the path straight back to her building, keeping her eyes open. Before long, she noticed she was moving at a pretty heavy stride.

It didn't feel like she was rushing—she hadn't broken into a jog, and she wasn't forcing herself forward on her toes. She was navigating around people effortlessly--picking paths without really picking them. She couldn't explain it. Part of her wanted to stop walking for a second, but the campus was bustling with people, and she was making good time.

When she got back to her building, she walked right by the elevator and headed toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. She took the first two floors a step at a time, but by the end of the second landing, she felt like she was running. She leapt up every other step on the next two flights, rounding the first landing before she even realized she was doing it. She didn't want to stop. She felt full of energy as she hit the last floor, and on the last three steps, Sarah gasped as she leapt onto the final landing.

Even though she was already at the top, she grabbed the railing. Maybe it was a precaution. She put one of her legs out in front of her enough to see a sneaker. Weird. Why did she just hit the staircase like a firefighter in training? She took a couple seconds to compose herself. Once she was convinced she still had control over her own feet, she entered the hall and headed toward her room.

She pulled out her keys as she approached the door, but her legs continued down the hall past her door. As soon as Sarah was about to react, she stopped. Her door was ten feet in the other direction now. She looked down at her shoes and had to hold herself back from saying anything aloud. She headed back to her door and jammed the key in the door. The first thing she saw when she got back into her room was the note on her desk.

I think we're your size.

The note wasn't written from an admirer. It was written from the shoes themselves. After the day she had, it seemed less like a cute attempt at anonymity and more a literal declarative. For lack of a better way of saying it, the shoes had a mind all their own.

She walked over to her bed to take them off. Just as she tried to sit down, she felt her foot pulled out in front of her, away from the bed. Her body weight swung forward. As soon as her foot planted, the other came from behind her in a semicircle, spinning her a half-turn. Without even trying, she ended up against the wall opposite her bed, upright and feet together.

It was just like the bike dodge, but this time she was aware of it. As her mind tried to process what happened, she let out what she held back earlier.

“There's something to you, isn't there?” She looked down at her feet. At this point, addressing her new footwear didn't seem so strange. She waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. She held her breath and took a step toward her bed. Nothing.

She sat on the bed with no resistance this time, but when she leaned over to untie the laces on her left shoe, her foot hopped to the side. She gasped and sat back.

Too many weird things to deny. Weird sneakers show up. Make her feel giddy. Save her from crashing into a bike that was almost certainly going to hit her. Whisper to her? Write a note to her? Make her feet move around while she's in them?

Crazy person stuff, right? Sarah was determined to take the shoes off already and prove it to herself. When she leaned over to untie her laces again, she pounced like a cat. No resistance. She pulled out the loops and untied the sneaker, pulling the sides open and loosening the laces. No rush to take it off. Get the other one untied.

After the sneakers were no longer snugly wrapped around her feet, she laughed. She was fooling herself. She pulled off the left sneaker and set it on the floor. As she reached for the right, it hopped to the side, the same as the left had before.

So her muscles were jumpy. Or her feet were revolting. Or the shoes were magic. This time the hop only surprised her for a second—her determination won through. As she snatched the right shoe and lifted her heel, the back of the shoe bent up, sliding right back over her heel--almost holding itself on. As she tried to pull against it, she was thrown off balance. She lifted her left foot into the air and felt something slide over it.

Letting go of her right shoe, she looked over at her left foot. It was in the sneaker again. She regained her balance and planted her foot on the ground. Her mouth hung open. At this point, she was convinced  even Occam would've shrugged and told her the sneaker jumped onto her foot.

There was no other explanation.

She leaned in to take a close look at the left sneaker. She squinted at it and slowly lifted the laces up. After a cursory inspection, she pulled them tight again. When she did, both sneakers went snug around her arches, the feathery cushions wrapping around her tighter. It took her a second to register that her pull seemed to transfer to both feet, and did a double take when she looked to her right. The other shoe was tied again, double-knotted this time.

“OKAY!” She threw her hands up. “You've got my attention. Now prove to me that my head's not just messing with me.”

The two untied laces on her left foot stood straight up in the air. Electric danced up Sarah's spine when she saw it. It was really happening. She put a hand up to her mouth and watched the laces loop around each other into a starting knot. Two loops formed and the laces pulled tight again before they slid around each other, knotted and knotted again.

“What—what kind of sneakers are these?” Sarah felt her sneakers hop up and click their heels.

“Magic sneakers, babe,” came a soft voice from under her. “And you haven't seen anything yet.” Sarah put a few fingertips in her mouth and bit down. The things could talk? What kind of delusion was this?

“You're—” Sarah tried to mumble through her fingers. “You can—”

“Talk? Yes. I can talk, walk, run, and save your cute little piggies from everything from a runaway bicycle to a boring life.” Sarah felt the toe-boxes of her sneakers gently squeeze the tips of her feet.

“That's not possible.” Sarah muttered, more to herself than the apparently vocal footwear she had on.

“Oh, it isn't?” It was a playful, sweet, feminine voice. Odd as it seemed when Sarah had the thought—it was a voice that actually suited cute-yet-mischievous pink sneakers perfectly. “What's the explanation from the university scholar?”

A fair question for a delusion to ask its host, Sarah thought. Luckily, she had an answer right away, even if she didn't completely believe it.

“I'm dreaming.” Sarah sputtered with an almost total lack of conviction. “I have to be, right?”

“I hope you're not asking me,” The laces on both shoes untied and the shoes opened up, pulling themselves off of Sarah's feet and stepping forward without any feet in them. “Because honestly, if I dreamed about things like sitting through that class, I'd be afraid to fall asleep.”

Now the sneakers were not only walking around the room without any feet in them, but they were poking fun at her. But they made a good point. Sarah remembered everything about her day. She remembered getting the sneakers. She remembered going to class. This couldn't be a dream.

“How do you...do that?” Sarah asked, watching the laces re-tie themselves as the sneakers circled back toward her. She leaned over to get a closer look.

“I told you, silly. Magic.” The sneakers stepped in front of her and wiggled their toes. Sarah waved her hands around the sneakers. She didn't expect to find any strings or wires, but that didn't stop her—at this point she was trying to make sense of this in any way she could.

“Alright, so...why are you here?”

“Hmmm...” The sneakers rocked on their toes for a second while they formulated an answer. “A bunch of reasons, actually. First, you're something special. You don't realize it yet, but you've got talents you've never even imagined.”

“Talents?” Sarah asked. “What kind of talents?” The sneakers giggled.

“Magic again, girl,” The pink sneakers hit their heels together. “The same force that allows me to be my adorable little self is burning inside you—but you've never had a way to get to it. I'm here to change that.” The sneakers untied just as before. The laces came loose and expertly spiraled around each other like thin nylon snakes until they were unknotted. The sneakers flipped around and landed right between her legs, oriented in the same direction as her feet. “Second, you've got the most darling, slender feet...” Honey dripped from the voice. There was infatuation there. Longing. “...I love the way they feel inside me.”

Sarah looked down at the sneakers with wide-eyes. The sides pulled open and the tongue drew back. She felt silly saying it, but she liked the way her feet felt in the sneakers, too. They felt like they were made for her, and it seemed—at least by the way the sneakers spoke—that they had come to the same conclusion. Sarah had no reason to resist, except:

“I'm flattered,” Sarah said, “and I don't want to seem ungrateful—but I just found out in the last half hour that Magic undeniably exists. So...given the fact that there are plenty of folk-lore stories involving temperamental pixies, djinn, witches, curses, hexes, and I could go on—how do I know for sure that you're—you know—one of the 'good guys'?”

“Well...” the sneakers turned around and faced her again. One of them lifted up, running its toe gently against the inside of Sarah's sock-covered ankle. “You're not just some dense, energy-blind human, Sarah. You spent part of the day with me. Did even one moment of it feel sinister?” A little distracted by the pink sneaker starting a game of footsie with her, Sarah thought about it.

She was enamored with these sneakers from the moment she opened the box, but she wasn't sure it was proof she wasn't getting in over her head here. Still, did even one moment of it feel sinister?

No. A resounding no. Even when Sarah didn't know these sneakers could walk and talk on their own; even when she suspected her feet were being directed by something outside her own mind and muscles.  If that didn't settle it, what would? While she was a little nervous and giddy from the novelty of the whole situation, she trusted these things before they even said a word to her.

Her lower leg tingled as the sneaker toe worked its way under her pant leg, lifting it up and teasing the skin on the inside of her calf. They were flirty, they were cute, and they did take some extraordinary measures to prevent her from getting flattened by another bike-riding student. She shut her eyes, biting down on her lip a little. The sneaker toe was halfway up her calf, and Sarah couldn't help but let out a giggle.

“Alright—I'm usually not a very trusting person.” Sarah lifted her foot unoccupied by the sneaker's teasing touch and traced her toe down the vamp of the other sneaker. “But I took all your little games in stride, even before I knew anything about what I was dealing with. That certainly means something.” The enchanted footwear let out a swooning sigh as Sarah rubbed the front sole of her foot along the side of one of the sneakers. “So let's say I take up your offer to help me with my...talents. What happens next?”

“Next, I introduce you to some friends,” the sneakers replied. The one being caressed by Sarah's foot turned to make itself more accessible.

“What kind of friends?” Sarah asked.

“A couple other girls kind of like you—but neither of them quite share your level of untrained talent...” The sneaker ascending her calf came back down and ran along Sarah's sock from ankle to toe. “or your wonderful, slender feet.”

“And you're going to do what?” Sarah asked, her lower legs tingling from the interplay between her feet and the enchanted pink sneakers. “Train us?”

“Certainly—though it won't be me. I'm going to introduce you to the one who created me. She's a master of magic, and if you like what you've seen and felt so far,” The sneakers purred, “this is just the beginning.”

“So...when do I get to meet everyone?” Sarah asked. The sneakers flipped about again, opening their sides and pulling up their tongues.

“We can go right now,” they replied. “Hop in. I'll take care of the rest.” Sarah lifted her feet and started placing them inside the sneakers, but they jumped on her feet before she finished. When the laces rose up in front of her and pulled tight, she felt a feathery, floaty rush throughout her body. She watched the magic laces snake themselves back into loops. When they tied, there was a subtle, but certainly noticeable reaction sending warmth up her thighs and between her legs. She almost mentioned it, but she was pulled off the bed when her feet sprang forward.

“You ready?” The sneakers asked. Sarah's left toe tapped against the floor on its own.

“Lead the way,” Sarah said. “And if you take the stairs, go easy on me, okay?”

The pink sneakers were tuning into Sarah when Bridget got back to her room. Gwen was laying on her bed, panting. Nyxe sat her up when the door opened. Both girls' faces were flushed.

“It's starting already,” Nyxe said, excitement in her voice. “They haven't even revealed themselves to her, and already they're communicating.”

“What do you mean by communicating?” Bridget asked. She felt a twinge of something hot and sharp on her ass; her living slacks had pinched her.

“For you two, it means I fulfill my promise of a reward.” Nyxe walked Bridget's soft, curvy body over to her bed. Bridget tingled all over. Her pussy was still wet; Nyxe's subtle tactile navigation was teasing every square inch of her body since she left the room. She was bent over at the waist until her breasts and face were pushed against her pillow-top bed. Bridget felt fluttery. It was playtime.

She put her hands against the bed and tried to push herself back up, but her sleeves tugged against her, pulling her arms away from the bed. Bridget let out a laugh as her arms were pulled behind her. Phantom hands traced over her down her back and over her luscious ass, gripping her just before they reached her thighs. Bridget melted when something teased over her clit. She closed her eyes and imagined how far something like this could go. Restraints. Paddles. Suspension. She knew this was just the beginning. She knew that if she kept helping Nyxe, anything was possible.

Gwen watched Bridget with pleasure-glazed eyes while Nyxe pressed her tits together and danced over her nipples with her satiny blouse. She saw Bridget's hips wiggling back and forth, indentations appearing in the filled-out slacks where intangible fingers sank in and squeezed.

“Don't watch,” Nyxe whispered to Gwen. Her eyes caught Bridget's paddle, hovering through the air toward her hand. The sleeve of her blouse extended, pulling her hand out to meet it. “Participate.”

Gwen's mouth hung open a bit as she grasped the paddle. Nyxe had played with each of them before, but now Nyxe was sending her in to play with Bridget herself. Gwen's mind drifted over how the situation might end up as Nyxe walked her toward Bridget.

“Gwen's holding your paddle,” Nyxe said to Bridget. “Tell her what you want.” The invisible hands slid up the sides of her striped blouse, clearing the way for the impending paddle. Bridget's eyes lit up. There was no reason to hold back. This was Nyxe's show, and Bridget didn't want to disappoint. She could almost feel the warmth of Gwen's body standing behind her.

“Spank me, Gwen.” Bridget's plea was half-muffled by the bedspread. The ghostly feminine hands moving up her sides shifted to the outside of her breasts and pressed them together. Gwen was either hesitating or didn't hear her, and the fingers tweaking her nipples caused Bridget to cry out again—to turn her head to the side and demand it. “Spank me, Gwen!”

It was what she needed to hear. Her roommate had just given her permission—had nearly ordered her to use the wooden paddle on the firm round targets wrapped in cream-colored slacks. One of her sleeves pulled her hand up to rest on the small of Bridget's back, and the other drew back, winding up her swing.

“Don't hold back, babe,” Nyxe commanded quietly from the collar of Gwen's blouse. “Do a good job and I'll make her suck on your tits.” Gwen could feel her cheeks blushing. Despite what happened with Tiffany (and Bridget, earlier that day), this was different. Nyxe was no longer satisfied by exploring the girls' bodies with her ethereal touch. She was leading them to a new level of play. She wanted them to explore each other.

The paddle came down on Bridget's backside with sweet, stinging force. Instead of the expected exclamation, a drawn out sound of satisfaction vibrated between Bridget's lips.


Gwen's sleeve pulled at her hand resting on Bridget's back, guiding it down over the curve she just smacked with the paddle. As her fingers were directed over the slacks, she took it upon herself to grab a handful. Bridget responded with laughter that shook down through her hips.

“You really do have a spankable ass, Brij,” Gwen smirked, letting go as her hand was pulled aside by the sleeve again. The paddle pulled her other arm back, winding up to strike again.

It landed with a crack on the opposite side of her butt. This time Sarah let out a delighted shriek.

“Yeah!” Bridget turned back toward Gwen, her face painted with the naughty feedback on her mind. “Harder, like that last one. Like you mean it.” Gwen couldn't help but giggle. They'd been pretty open with each other most of the semester, trading stories about relationships, flings, habits and quirks...still, she didn't expect to be standing over her roommate's bed, indulging in Bridget's favorite playful indiscretion—supernatural entity or not.

Gwen let the paddle guide her; still in her hands, it danced itself lightly over Bridget's cheeks, switching back and forth and giving each side a couple light taps before winding up and slapping a third time.

“Gooooood,” Bridget purred. “So good. Keep going.” Gwen continued teasing and smacking, and the actions came under her own volition more often. Every once in a while, her sleeve would shift her to a new area of her target. Sometime she'd feel the paddle guide her hand into another technique, showing her how best to push Bridget's buttons.

As the session went on, Nyxe's confidence in her power became more evident. Gwen didn't know exactly how long they'd been going when it happened, but when Nyxe made Bridget's outfit climb up onto her bed, Gwen positioned herself on the other side of Bridget and found herself staring at a pair of Bridget's blue cotton boy shorts.

They were filled out to Bridget's shape, leaning against the wall near her closet. They almost looked like they were watching intently. Was that possible? Or were they just an extension of Nyxe? Gwen decided she'd find out for herself.

When she beckoned them over with a finger, they moved away from the wall a bit, but they didn't bounce over to her. Nyxe laughed.

“Why hello, my lovely.” They swayed back and forth in response to Nyxe's voice. “You're not being shy, are you?”

“I didn't want to interrupt anything,” the boy shorts said, now catching Bridget's attention as well. “They look like they're having fun.” A smile curled over Bridget's glossy lips. Those weren't just any underwear. They were the pair she was wearing the last time she got laid.

“We are having fun,” Bridget said. “So join us.” The shorts slinked over, mimicking a bodacious walk as the round blue forms in the rear tensed and bounced. Gwen eyes were pulled to the paddle. Her arm followed behind its motion as the paddle passed before her, preparing a backhanded strike.

The blue shorts turned on their last step toward Gwen, assuming the position. As the waistband bent away from her, Gwen saw the soft material stretch up between two invisible cheeks.

These sometimes-mutable, sometimes-tangible forms were such a mindfuck. The paddle lined up to hit  the ghostly shape of the shorts. When the swing finally came, it wasn't the apparently empty fabric that the paddle hit, but rather the invisible form inside. The sound of the smack was every bit as resonant as when the paddle hit Bridget's reddened ass.

The force directing the paddle allowed Gwen's hand to drop to her side, and she reached up toward the shorts with her other hand, expecting it to pass through the leg-hole. She gasped when her fingertips landed on something soft, but firm.

“You like?” The boy shorts asked. “Go ahead, grab it.” Gwen extended her fingertips again until they pressed against an unseen cheek. She ran her fingers over the silky smoothness of the invisible curve, working her way down to its edge, where it met a phantom thigh.

“Do—you have a whole body?” Gwen wanted to know, but she couldn't bring herself to wave her hand over the shorts to find out. Just then, she boy shorts spun around to face her. She felt something latch on to her wrist holding the paddle. She realized it was a hand when she felt the soft, slender fingers change grip. The broad wooden instrument was quickly plucked from her fingers, and the invisible hand at her wrist released her shortly after. The shorts took a step back, and the paddle followed with them.

“I have whatever I need to have,” the shorts responded. “We already know Bridget's fond of this game,” they continued, “but let's see how you take a little ass-blistering.” A pause, then, “Would you care to do the honors, my queen?” Gwen understood who they were addressing well before her outfit threw her on the bed next to Bridget.

“Queen, huh?” Bridget asked, turning to the surprised Gwen. Nyxe danced Gwen's ass into the same position as Bridget's—as high as it could go and with optimal accessibility to the hovering paddle.

“Well, now that it's been mentioned...my official title is Governess,” Nyxe said. “But 'Queen' works in a pinch.”  As soon as Nyxe delivered the word pinch, both girls felt a nip on their asses. For Gwen, the hot sear of the paddle came directly after. She let out a whimper.

“When do we get to really unleash on them?” The shorts asked. Gwen looked over at Bridget.

“Not yet,” Nyxe said. “The other is on her way now, and she still needs to be...initiated.” Bridget turned to Gwen's clothes, pointing a disappointed face at them in the assumption that it would make a difference.

“On her way? I thought you said we were getting our rewar—ooh!”

The wooden kiss came before she finished her sentence. The sleeves pulled her arms tighter behind her. The pull was like iron wrapped in velvet and down—comfortably unbreakable.

“In a couple of hours I'm going to have you begging me to slow down, sweetie.” Nyxe's words had the shorts giggling. “My power is already twice as strong as when we met. When our guest arrives, it'll be two hundred times.”

It was clear that the once-vulnerable force Gwen had agreed to assist was no longer on the verge of death...or whatever kind of non-existence an entity like Nyxe went through. It was time to clear on some details before she followed any further with the plan. Followed any further voluntarily, of course, for the difference it made. It was probably too late to break free even if she wanted to.

“What happens next, Nyxe?” Yeah. Nyxe. No titles. Ignore the invisible hands caressing your girls and what you swear feels like sweet, hot breath from the dampened crotch of your stockings. Like when it comes time to resist world domination, the fact that you never called her your queen is going to matter. Gwen's skirt pulled itself into the air again, and she let out a sigh. She couldn't kid herself. Resistance wasn't a plan her body was going to follow at this point.

She stuck her ass out in anticipation of the paddle's slap. It didn't hit yet.

“Do you think you know, my dear?” It was a shock of heat that danced up Gwen's spine now, through no stroke of wood against flesh. Could Nyxe read minds? Gwen turned to Bridget again. There was nothing but a soft smile, eyes closed in ecstasy, invisible hands and only Nyxe knew what else going on beneath her clothes.

“I know,” Bridget whispered. “We have a bigger party.” Nyxe and the shorts both laughed in response, and Gwen swore she heard the same reaction from both of their closets.

A series of little taps of the paddle danced across Gwen's ass, followed by a quick strike on each cheek.  Her skirt swept back over her now-rosy butt, and she felt her body slide backward. Bridget's did the same, turning her around and sitting her on the bed.

“That's enough for now, girls.” Nyxe said. “Our third nears.” Gwen started to smooth out her blouse, but the tan sleeves went rigid. “You don't think I can take care of that?” The blouse tensed around Gwen's tits and ballooned out a second later. She looked down at the living blouse and cooed.

There was nothing to see on the surface, but she already knew the sensations were underneath the inflated satin blouse. There was a pair of ghostly lips over each nipple, teasing them. Gwen closed her eyes and drifted in the liquid silk dancing over her electric aureolae.

“What about me?” The shorts asked.

“You can stay,” Nyxe said. “If they followed the plan—and it feels like they did—then she's already been talking to her shoes. The only new concept here would be your hovering. Just keep out of the way for a second.”

The caressing from the girls clothes stopped. As both caught their breath and glanced up at each other, they heard a knock at the door. Before either could respond, the doorknob turned itself, and the door opened.

Sarah assumed they were expecting her. She didn't hear a word, and the door clicked open. She let the sneakers walk her straight into the room, and the door shut behind her.

“Girls, Nyxe—this is Sarah,” the shoes said.  Sarah smiled politely and waved, stopping when her eyes reached the floating blue boy shorts. Floating there on their own. With nothing supporting them. The shoes weren't kidding. There really were other supernatural things happening on this campus.

“It's nice to meet you, Sarah,” said a syrupy voice that couldn't have come form the girl that approached her. Her lips weren't even moving.

“Nice to meet you too...” Sarah looked at Gwen, waiting for a name.

“Not me,” The girl said, moving her lips and speaking in a different, more drifting tone. “Them.” She gestured down, and her skirt billowed out.

“I'm Nyxe,” the outfit said. “Gwen is wearing me, and Bridget's sitting on her bed.” The girls acknowledged Sarah as Nyxe continued. “I suppose it would have been easier if Gwen changed out of me before being introduced, But I figured you could appreciate the feeling of wearing clothes that move on their own.”

“Well, sure,” Sarah said. “These shoes have been great, but—I can only imagine what a whole outfit would feel like.” She turned to Bridget. “Are you wearing anything that talks?”

They were there. All three of them were there. But she couldn't get ahead of herself. Nyxe had to build this session organically—to let the girls build to rapture at their own exploration. Gwen was her savior, and by now she was the most reserved of the three. Bridget was a ready-made submissive, and the third could be trained to greater purpose. It was time to move forward.


Away from the campus, somewhere in suburbia, vibrations from 15 years ago echoed into the present, and they were getting stronger. Anabel could feel it—something was wrong.