Mysterious.Sexy - magical women, fantastic settings, supernatural situations

How To Get Groupies


  • Plebeian
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on: March 20, 2015, 05:14:37 PM
I read a post about how the forums have lacked for content lately, so here you go. I'm pretty sure this one contains more errors than The Cat Burglar did when I first posted it in edit hell. There are multiple parts to this story, but it's unfinished. Hopefully I can get myself back into writing mode and wrap it up.

You know how at every concert there's one girl who's just a little too into it? Dances nonstop, probably crowd surfs, maybe flashes her boobs? Well, tonight, that's me. And I don't even like this band. It would be fair to say that I hate them, and the review I had written for the magazine I work at had reflected that. So why am I here wearing my shortest skirt and tightest top shaking my ass like there's no tomorrow?

I'll get to that. First, a little background.

My name is Marcella Mason, Marcy for short, and I wanted to be a reporter. But life, as it often does, had other plans and I ended up writing for a music magazine. It wasn't a bad job, really, but it wasn't what I wanted to do. I like music as much as the next girl, but writing about whiny, fashionably angst filled musicians wasn't how I wanted to spend my life. So I might have harbored a little resentment, and maybe I was unnecessarily harsh in my reviews. I especially didn't like "sensitive" singer-songwriter types. So when I had to review an up and coming solo artist named Jackson, (yes, one name, like Madonna,) I was less than pleased. It was twenty minutes of clichéd romantic lyrics and acoustic guitar that I'd never get back.

One thing I've learned writing for a music magazine is that reviews don't mean anything. People will listen to what they want to listen to no matter what, and being reviewed at all gets the artist publicity. So in my mind, I was just venting. It was harmless. Not for the first time in my career, I received angry letters, (mostly e-mails nowadays,) from his fans. But a first for me was receiving an angry letter, or package really, from the artist. And a weird one. It read:

Ms. Mason,

I'm very disappointed with your review. I expect to see you at my concert on Wednesday for an apology.


I laughed. He was going to be disappointed. There was a layer of paper beneath the letter. I pulled it aside and… I'm not sure what happened. I remember a golden light, and feeling peaceful and warm. And maybe a little horny. The next thing I knew, my editor Rick was snapping his fingers in front of my face. Rick was a good guy, but he was a heart attack waiting to happen. His was a stressful job.

"Snap out of it Mason, I need that article on the new Britney Spears album ASAP!"

I snapped out of whatever stupor I had been in, gasping. I felt warm, like I was blushing. And thankfully hidden beneath my suit jacket, blouse, and bra, my nipples were erect.

"Back with us? Good," he said, slapping me on the back. "Get some rest. Right after you get me that article."

A Britney Spears review? I cracked my knuckles and looked up synonyms for terrible, my strange package forgotten.


I don't remember carrying the package to my car, and I don't remember carrying it upstairs, but when I glanced over as I sat in my PJ's watched the nightly news it was there. I remembered something strange about it, but I couldn't recall what. The vague memory didn't seem dangerous anyway, so I pulled it over and looked inside. Now, I've never seen a mirage with my own eyes, but that was all I could think of to describe the undulating shimmer in the box. And what was shimmering was every shoe anyone had ever imagined, all at once. Go-go boots, stilettos, ballet boots, and even those weird toe shoes flashed in front of me. They seemed to be getting larger. Or maybe I was leaning closer, I couldn't be sure. Either way, it didn't matter because something was coming into focus. All the other shoes were just a glamour, a ruse. The real pair was making itself known.

My hand was reaching into the light, into the shimmer, and I could almost make out what was in the box. The moment my hand touched the shoes, a bolt of golden energy raced up my arm, and ripped down my body. I couldn't tell if it was frigid or electric, but the force of it blowing through me blew my hair away from my face. I was left gasping with my head leaned back facing the ceiling, back arched, body trembling. It didn't hurt, but it was overwhelming. This was how a York Peppermint Patty would make you feel if advertising was accurate.

I sat up, breathing deeply. I had goose bumps and the hairs were standing up on my arms. What the hell had just happened? I looked towards the box. It was empty. Again, what the hell? But then I saw them, the real shoes. They were woven gold, and intricate. They were covered in delicate patterns, and the toes curled up like a genie's shoes. They seemed unutterably ancient, yet perfectly preserved. And they were on my feet. I wiggled my toes to test this, and the golden material moved in confirmation. This was very curious.

I curled my leg towards me and put my hands on the left shoe, intending to pull it off. But when my fingers touched its rough surface an overwhelming sensation enveloped my foot. It was at the same time ticklish, pleasurable, and almost painful. It reduced me to a gasping, trembling mess. Again.

"Come on Marcy," I said, steeling myself to try again. I took a deep breath and shot both hands out and pulled. It should have been simple. The shoe was basically a slipper, but it wouldn't budge. I tried the other one with the same results, sans the overwhelming sensations. I wanted to pretend I didn't know what was going on, but it actually seemed pretty obvious. Strange light, weird mirage, bolt of light passing through my body, shoes that wouldn't come off. Add up those facts and it equaled me stuck in magical shoes. I was sitting in my upscale New York apartment wearing my favorite pink kitty cat pajama pants, and I was trapped in magic shoes. I uttered a single laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I guess I was going to Jackson's concert after all.


  • Plebeian
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Reply #1 on: March 20, 2015, 05:15:27 PM
I had strange dreams that night, dreams illuminated by the golden light I'd seen from the shoe box. I couldn't remember much, but it was hot in the dream. And I'd been dancing exotically. Dancing for powerful men. It was a strange thought for me to have, as I'm pretty independent, but I didn't spend much time thinking about it. Because I woke up horny. Hornier than I could ever remember being. But as I ran my hand down my body and under the sheets to take care of my condition, my wrist touched cold metal. I froze, suddenly fully awake. There shouldn't be any metal on me. I threw the sheets back to find something strange. My belly button was pierced.

"What the hell," I whispered, examining the jewelry that had somehow materialized through my flesh in the night. It was a silver loop, cool to the touch, and was seamless. As in, there was no way to take it off, short of cutting it off. I didn't have long to worry about it though, because that was when something licked my foot. I've had my feet kissed before, but never licked. I'd found it kind of gross then, and as I was alone in my bedroom, I was understandably alarmed. I kicked the sheets back to reveal the culprits.

The shoes glistened beautifully in the morning sunlight. I noted with growing concern that a thin gold chain, festooned with bells, now encircled my left ankle. I searched it too, and it didn't have a way to remove it either. But the chain was thin and I was feeling panicky, so I pulled it hard. I kept pulling until the chain was biting into my leg but it would not break. I stopped with a sigh, feeling strangely calmer. And then I felt a warm, wet mouth slurp up my big toe. I was watching the shoes as it happened, and there was nothing there. But the feeling of a mouth sucking my toes, it's eager, wet tongue probing between them was definitely there. I couldn't contain my disgust.

"EW! EW! EW!," I cried, embarrassed at sounding like a girl that has just seen a mouse, but this was seriously disgusting. And I couldn't stop it. I was pawing at the shoes, digging my nails in, rubbing the accursed footwear on the sheets. But nothing worked. I forced myself to be still as my feet were worked over. Eventually it stopped, and was left with the feeling of saliva drying between my toes. I was going to kick Jackson's ass for this.

Once I was feeling calmer I made my way to to the shower. I glanced momentarily at the shoes, but wasn't too worried about damaging them. It turned out that the water flowed freely through them anyway. Another thing I found out as the water flowed over me, was that I was still horny. Not overwhelmingly so like when I woke up, but the feeling was definitely there. I decided to take care of it. Using the cascading warm water to my advantage, I soon brought myself to a satisfying climax. As I was still moaning my happy little moans, I felt cold metal around my other ankle. I looked down to find another bell covered chain around my right ankle. I had a matching pair. Shit.

I puzzled over it as I dried off. Had it the new jewelry been added because I'd masturbated? Would it happen every time? There was nothing I could do about it, so I tried not to dwell on it. In any case, I didn't plan on being in the shoes that long. Jackson's concert was tonight and I planned on being free by tomorrow. But in the meantime I had work. I had to spend a little extra time pulling my pants on over the shoes, but I got them on. Other than that it was business as usual.

The pants I wore flared out a bit at the bottom, so the golden shoes were partially covered. It looked a little odd, wasn't terribly noticeable. The drive in was uneventful. It wasn't until I had been at work for a few hours that the shoes struck again. They were sort of nuzzling each other, beneath the desk. They were making me play footsie with myself. I spread my legs apart so they couldn't touch, but as soon as I would relax they were back at it.

I tried to ignore it, but then the licking started again. And the suckling. And what felt like kissing. Was Jackson a foot fetishist? Did he think I was his toy? I wished I could bring a taser with me tonight to his concert to motivate him with, but security would never let me in with it. Rick walked by and caught me squirming and making a sour face.

"Problem, Marcy?"

"Breakfast isn't sitting well," I lied. "I think I'll make a visit to the ladies room."

I stood and walked as nonchalantly as possible, which is made considerably more difficult when your feet are being licked by unseen mouths. I made it to a bathroom stall before I lost my composure.

"Stop it," I hissed at the shoes, stomping on one of them. And they did, much to my surprise. But then the licking was replaced with something worse. A feathery stroke rolled across the bottom of my foot, from heel to toe. My entire body tensed. My feet were insanely ticklish. I opened my mouth but whatever I had to say came out a squeal. The feather was moving back and forth slowly, and it was already too much for me. I struggled not to thrash, not to whimper, but I wasn't doing very well. Clawing and pulling at the shoes was just as useless as before, but I couldn't not try. I hate to be tickled.

"I'm sorry I stomped on you," I whispered breathlessly. "Please stop." I was so keen on not being tickled anymore that I didn't particularly care how crazy I sounded, apologizing to my footwear in a bathroom stall. And they did. Nothing changed about the shoes appearance, but they suddenly seemed smug somehow. I sighed. Tonight couldn't get here fast enough. And I hated to admit it, but I could feel my lust rising again. But what would I be stuck wearing this time if I succumbed to it?

I trudged back to my desk, belled anklets jingling merrily. I tried my best to focus on work while willing the clock to go faster. And my lust just kept simmering, just enough to never let me forget it was there. Finally, five o'clock rolled around. I intended to bolt, but Rick caught me as I was putting on my coat.

"Got plans this weekend, Marcy? I was wondering if…" I was too distracted to lie, and in too big of a rush to hear him out.

"I'm going to the Jackson concert tonight." He gave me a surprised look.

"I thought you hated him?"

"I do."

He stared at me for a moment, and when I didn't elaborate he said, "Well, have a good weekend."

"I'll try," I responded. I really hoped I would.


  • Plebeian
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Reply #2 on: March 20, 2015, 05:16:21 PM
Press passes are a wonderful thing. I had been backstage at enough concerts to know how these things went, so I was able to make my way to the dressing rooms pretty quickly. I barged in without knocking, and there the bastard was. He was eating apple slices, and paused as I burst in. Once he saw who I was though, he just grinned and finished his slice. I approached him, anger building. He stood and greeted me like an old friend.

"Marcella! Here to make amends. It's so good to see you."

He wrapped his arms around me in an embrace unexpectedly. My anger was immediately replaced with unwanted pleasure. Waves of pleasure crashed over me, coming from the shoes. I tried to stifle myself, but a few unladylike groans escaped me as the muscles in my stomach jumped and twitched. My legs turned to jelly. The shoes drove me to orgasm in the arms of the man who was doing this to me. I would've collapsed if he hadn't been there to catch me. I felt new cold metal around my waist, some piercing or trinket that I couldn't take off summoned by my orgasm. He helped me to a chair where I just glared up at him as my heart rate began to return to normal. He looked down at me, his expression one of mock sympathy.

"Sorry dear, I have that effect on women." He chuckled.

I responded with some choice phrases you'll never hear on television.

"My, my, such a fierce young lady. Maybe this will calm you down."

He gestured to a guitar stand. A strange golden glow, the same as the one in the shoebox, hovered there. I squinted at it as it slowly came into view. It started out as some ancient stringed instrument, something similar to a sitar. It ended up as a beautiful acoustic guitar with golden hardware and inlays of a similar design as the ones adorning my shoes. That couldn't be good. He noticed me noticing the similarities and grinned.

"You have a good eye. The instrument and the shoes are linked."

He picked the guitar up and slung its strap over his shoulder. The strings were vibrating slightly from him moving it, and the shoes echoed their vibration. They trembled around my feet and I knew I wasn't going to like what came next. He tickled the strings lightly and my body shot up, standing at attention. I hadn't meant to do that. The shoes had somehow controlled my body. I was starting to panic.

"Don't do this."

He strummed a chord and my hip swung to the left, my legs parted in a dancer's stance. My arm stretched behind my arched back, breasts thrust forward. I couldn't move from the provocative pose, and he was enjoying it. He leered at the rise and fall of my chest.

"Dance is expressive. It covers a lot of ground, Marcella. There's ballet…"

He strummed an elegant sounding chord and my body shifted smoothly until I was standing on tiptoe on one foot, my other leg suspended and bent inwards toward my supporting leg. My arms were frozen in the air above me, fingers spread. The position wasn't one I could have done on my own, and even with his magical control over me, my muscles were definitely feeling the strain.

"Vegas showgirl…"

He played a riff and I could only watch him helplessly as my legs alternately kicked out in front of me, my hands on my hips, and an a idiot grin plastered on my face.

"But the style you could really use, judging from those clothes, is exotic…"

He began playing and my body writhed helplessly. My traitorous hands unbuttoned my suit jacket and my shoulders shrugged it off. My body swayed as I began unbuttoning my blouse. My tongue ran along my lips invitingly. I was desperately trying to regain even a little control, but I couldn't so much as wiggle a toe while the sound of his playing washed over me. For now, I was his personal stripper. I pulled my shirt wide, ripping the last few buttons free, and flashed my lavender bra for him. I saw that my last orgasm had left me with a fine gold chain encircling my waist but then shirt joined the suit jacket on the floor, and then my hands were clawing desperately at my pants.

I whimpered as they were pulled roughly down, exposing my matching panties. What can I say, I like nice underwear. I stepped out of the pants and kicked them aside. I stood undulating before him wearing only my undies and the ancient, horrible shoes. My hands roamed over my body, guiding his eye to parts of my anatomy I'd have preferred he not linger on. The feel of my own hands on my body had become alien. It was like being groped by a stranger.

And then the horrible, fascinating music stopped and I was in control of myself. I was winded and embarrassed. I tried to cover myself from his leering gaze like a character from some teen sex comedy..

"Now you have a choice. You are going to lose the bra and panties. Do you want to do it yourself, or would you prefer I make you?"

I decided my best bet was to try and intimidate him. It turned out to be a bad call.


Angry Marcy was immediately replaced with Stripper Marcy by a simple strum of the strings. My hands undid the clasp on my bra and came back to the front to lower it slowly, putting on a show for him. My panties followed, and still I swayed for him. The only external clue to my struggle was the warm blush on my face. For all other intents and purposes I appeared to be his willing slut.

"The magic in those shoes and this guitar is ancient. I've tried tracing it back to it's origin and was able to follow it all the way back to ancient Egypt. Of course back then the instrument wasn't a guitar, but you probably noticed all it's incarnations when you first saw it in the light. The same goes for the shoes."

He was right. Both the shoes and the guitar had appeared to change shapes when I had first seen them before the solidified into what they looked like now. I couldn't tell him that though, spellbound as I was. All I could do was shake my ass and grin like a cock tease.

"They were used by the pharaohs to build the most exquisite, obedient harems the world has ever known. Once a girl was chosen, she would remain a member of the harem for the rest of her life."

I didn't like the sound of that. He seemed to know it, and grinned. He stopped playing, leaving me panting but in control of myself. I sank to the floor, exhausted.

"Life expectancy was shorter back then, of course. But the point is, I don't have to let you go. But I will, if…"

"If what? What do I have to do to get these damned things off and you out of my life?"

"Undo the damage you did with your review. You have to get my album to go platinum." I was flabbergasted.

"And how am I supposed to do that!?"

"That's your problem. But I do know that sex sells, so consider this a gift."

He began playing a melody that sounded somehow ancient, and my body responded. I raised slowly, my hips and torso squirming in ways I didn't know they could. He was the charmer and I was the snake, completely under his thrall. This song was different then the ones before, and he was singing in another language. Energy was building in the room; I could feel its pressure on my skin. My hips began wriggle in way I would have never thought possible, my palms locked together above my head. I was belly dancing, and it would've have put Shakira to shame. The speed kept growing and growing, impossibly fast, until my hips were almost a blur. The shoes were licking, sucking, and stroking my feet again, but now the sensations were creeping up my legs, engulfing my sex. I couldn't help but moan and couldn't stop the dance. The sensations reached my breasts and kept rising until I was covered completely. I was drowning in sensation, every inch of me licked, stroked, sucked, and tickled. I was going to cum, it was inevitable. But even with all the distraction I could still feel the pressure in the room building, with me as its focal point. The same mirage light that had engulfed the shoes and the guitar now appeared around me. It surrounded me in a sphere at first but contracted quickly, conforming to the curves of my body. It tingled where it touched, adding another layer of sensation to my over stimulated body. I was slick with sweat and an inch away from what I thought would be a dangerously powerful orgasm when there was a blinding flash of light. I felt the magic compress around my skin but didn't have a chance to check it, because I suddenly wasn't being forced to dance anymore. I wasn't prepared for the abrupt return of control and fell to the ground with a crash. And the jingling of bells.

I sat up slowly, vision blurry. My body ached with exertion and burned with unfulfilled lust. And something seemed to be covering my mouth. I pulled at it weakly, some piece of soft fabric, but it wouldn't detach. I squinted and it came into focus. It was a veil, made of sheer sky blue silk. The hand that tugged at it was clad in an intricate piece of jewelry made of tiny gold chains and medallions. I looked down at myself. I was wearing a freaking Genie costume. Bare stomach, skimpy silk top, harem pants, the whole deal. And costume might have been the wrong word. This was made of fine silk, and the jewelry I found myself was festooned with jingled at my barest movement. Being made of nice materials didn't make it any less slutty though. The silk pants were sheer and my sore legs were basically bare. A tiny strip of opaque silk between my thighs was all that preserved my modesty. My breasts were covered in a similar way by the skimpy top, but I could all ready tell that the silk against my breasts was going to drive me crazy. And I was covered with gold and jewels everywhere, the bulkiest of which were a thick collar around my neck and bracelets around my wrist. I looked up at my leering captor, too exhausted for bravado.

"What is this?"

"That will be your attire for the duration of your service to me. You'll find it's as attached to you as the shoes. Now if I were you, I'd drink some water and rest up. The show is in a few minutes and I know you're going to be a big hit." He turned to go.

"Love the hair, by the way," he called over his shoulder. I put my hand to my head to find that my hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a few stray tendrils in front to frame my face, and stuck that way by a golden, bejeweled ring. And it was longer than it had been. I could feel it brushing my back below the skimpy top. From outside I could hear sound techs testing the instruments. I tried tearing at the silk, but it absolutely would not rip. It was just as enchanted as the shoes. Him saying that I was going to be in the show mortified me, but I couldn't exactly leave trapped in this outfit. My situation had just gone from bad to much, much worse.


  • Plebeian
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Reply #3 on: March 20, 2015, 05:16:56 PM
And that's all I've got for now.