The Kanye Witch Coven (Bianca Censori, Kim Kardashian, Amber Rose)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

The Kanye Witch Coven (Bianca Censori, Kim Kardashian, Amber Rose)



(tags: m/F, M/F, F/F, handjob, oral, anal)

Summary: something's wrong with Kanye West. Is he dead? Brainwashed? Held prisoner? Three famous exes share a disturbing secret that they'd kill to protect...but then one of them betrays the others.



Chapter 1:  Bianca Censori

Jason was just a normal kid. But sometimes normal people get swept up in something bigger than they are. Stranger than they are. More beautiful than they are.

He was scooping leaves out of Kanye West's pool one day when a female voice cut the air.

"Hey, hot stuff!"

He spun. Bianca Censori was leaning over the rail, watching him.

Terror blasted through him. The net fell through his fingers, clattering on the poolside.

His boss had been very clear about celebrities.

"Kid, you might see famous people along your route. Ignore them. Pretend they don't exist. Don't talk to them. Don't ask for selfies or autographs. Don't even make eye contact. Keep your head down, clean their pool, and go. If I hear you're bothering stars, you're gone. A million kids would kill for your Beverly Hills route, and I can replace your ass in a heartbeat."

"Relax, kiddo..." Bianca's smile slitted out, an Invisalign-perfect arc. Lacquered fingernails drummed against the rail, ringing quartet-note arpeggios on sun-burnished metal. "I don't bite."

She leaned further over, biting her lip. One ankle kicked playfully against the other.

"...Just watchin' ya."

Unlatching the gate, she sauntered toward the pool. Toward Jason. His heart thundered inside his ribs. Oh God, what am I supposed to do? If my boss hears about this, I'm dead.

She stalked him down with an arrogant strut that started from her hips, all sway and bounce and roll. Her voluptuous derriere curved arabesques as she moved; writing cursive on the summer air. Drawing close, she put hands on his shoulders. Her soft feminine touch sent hormonal tides surging beneath Jason's skin.

Bianca was physically overwhelming. She propounded a dolled-up, slutty cuteness: her face was blade-sharp; her tawny eyes piercing, her boyishly short hair swept and pulled back in stark knotted cords that gleamed like blackest jet. The coiffure of a woman who demands total control—over herself and over others.

Jason's gaze slid from her face to her contradictory yet compelling figure. Curvy and busty, yet strapped with hard Crossfitter muscle, Bianca Censori was a mega-stacked Juggs cover girl and an elite Olympic floor gymnast, Brundlefly'd into one body.

Dumbstruck, Jason gazed at the gigantic balloon-breasts suspended from her chest like sandbags, two feet from his face. Bianca had fuck-you-for-staring tits. Keep-staring-anyway tits. They wobbled, barely contained, so audaciously there that Jason felt their presence like a slap to the face. A scandalous triangle-string bikini trisected each breast into three perfect bulges of summer-tanned flesh, drawing a bullseye around the barely-covered nipple at the center.

"Um, up here?" Bianca laughed. Blushing, Jason lifted his eyes. "I see you cleaning my pool sometimes. What's your name?"

"...Jason."

She punched his arm playfully.

"You got some muscles, champ." Her smile flashed white. "Do you work out?"

He mumbled something about football drills.

"Why don't you ever take your shirt off? Give a lonely housewife some eye candy."

He blanched. This wasn't a conversation, it was a headlong tumble down a rabbit hole.

"...that's against the rules, Mrs West."

The sound of her husband's name curled up her cute button-nose with contempt. "Call me Bianca. There have been too many Mrs Wests for my taste."

"Okay...Mrs Censori."

She laughed again. "Aw, you're a real straighty one-eighty. No fun at all!" In her Australian accent, straight rhymed with Sprite.

She swept out a hand at the water's shimmering opalescence. "I'm taking a dip. Join me?"

"Er, well," he stammered, "I'd love to, Mrs Censori, but I'm really busy, and also I've just finished cleaning it, so..."

Bianca laid her hands on his shoulders, stared into his eyes, and shushed him with a finger...before doing something that made shushing unnecessary. Something that rendered him speechless.

She shimmied her shoulders, ripped away her sheer mesh bodysuit, and untied her overloaded string bikini. Her big tits exploded into view. They dropped thunderously to her sternum, bouncing and yo-yo-ing to a halt. Stunned, he watched her nipple-capped breasts leap and rebound, as if spring loaded.

With a flick of her hands and a sharp whiplash of her hips, her bikini bottoms hit the tiles, exposing her shaven pubis.

Bianca Censori stood naked and smiling under the hot Los Angelino sun.

She stretched out one arm—her pendulous jugs bobbled like a kid's party balloons—and dropped her bikini into the pool.

"Oh, look at that! You haven't finished cleaning it!"

She shoved Jason into the water. Ker-splash!

* * *

They swam together. He didn't know if it lasted a minute or an hour.

Bianca shamelessly flirted; ruthlessly teased. His boxers soon swelled with an erection.  She moved and darted and spun in circles around him, tits and ass a-jiggle, even diving between his legs. Her heavy jugs repeatedly brushed his body as they volleyballed through the water. They felt massive and soft and warm.

This can't be real. She nipped his ankle with those sharp white foxteeth, and his raging cock felt like it was about to explode. She's Kanye West's wife. This is against the rules. All of them!

If I talk to a celeb, I'm fired. If I make eye contact with a celeb, I'm fired. If I swim in a celeb's pool, I'm tied to a stake, publically executed, shoved into a woodchipper, mulched into paste, excommunicated by the Pope, blasted into the sun, and THEN fired.

...But what if a celeb makes me do those things? What then?

His boss had never covered that; had probably never thought it would occur. Kanye West was a celebrity, and Bianca Censori was his latest slambunny and thus a celebrity-by-proxy. Jason was just a kid. Invisible. Unnoticed. America had never deposed its aristocracy; just hidden it from view. There were people who mattered and people who didn't, and if you don't know which group you're in, it's the second one.

I'm a nobody to these rich assholes. A pool boy. They think I don't exist.

And yet, in Bianca's eyes, he did exist. She'd noticed him. She'd cared. He felt like he'd tumbled into a fairytale about a princess who falls in love with a shoe-cobbler. Maybe it was just the chlorine, but tears were welling up in his eyes. It was inexpressibly powerful, and ennobling...just being seen.

He was doing plenty of seeing himself, of course.

Jason couldn't take his eyes off Kanye's wife as she waded close, eyes glinting, various items of anatomy jiggling beneath the water.

She dove between his legs again—her trailing foot caressed his throbbing genitals—before erupting from the water behind his back.

"Got a girlfriend, mate?" An Australian-accented voice said into his left ear, as huge tits squashed against his neck.

As bulging cleavage swallowed his head like lips engulfing a lollipop, Jason admitted that he did not.

"Ace. Then nobody who matters will care if I do this."

She dropped a hand to the elastic of his boxers, and began masturbating his cock beneath the water.

Jason was too shocked to move. As she pulled down his boxers, his teenaged prick leaped to attention, surging beneath her touch. He could feel his balls churning with cum.

"But Mrs W...Censori...you're married..." he managed to whimper.

She dug a lacqured nail into his balls. Sudden pain made his cock spasm, spitting out pre-ejaculate underwater.

"Please don't be slow on the uptake, Jason. I am well aware that am I married. I spent three fucking hours being fitted for a wedding dress! My marital situation is not news to me, believe it or not!"

With her hand not missing a stroke, Bianca's head vanished and reappeared on the other side of his body. Her lips pursed beside his right ear now, pink DSLs curling back like the bell of a piccolo trumpet.

"I. AM. HAVING. AN. AFFAIR."

Then her hot tongue twisted into his ear.

Jason's shaft had softened when she'd stabbed a nail into his scrotum. One sweeping lash of her tongue made it roar back to life.

He gazed downward into the shimmering surface of the pool, watching as her famous hand reached around his body, stroking off his unfamous cock. He felt like he was in a dream that had unexpectedly turned wet, in many senses.

Bianca nuzzled into the shivering curve of his neck.

"I never should have married." Bitterness welled like wormwood from her mouth. "I sit in that mansion all day, never being touched, never getting what I want. Just a trophy with a work visa."

The hand pulling his prick gripped painfully hard. He lacked the courage to tell her to ease up. The rippling water refracted light weirdly: his penis went from tiny to hentai-huge with each passing wave. A drip-feed of pre-cum trailed visibly from the throbbing tip, diffusing like smoke.

"I'm so lonely that I'm fucking the bloody pool boy!" Bianca laughed miserably. "What a cliche I've become!" Her voice dropped; became an ophidian hiss. He heard insanity circling inside her words; the pacing of a tiger confined to a too-small cage. "I don't care. I'd rather be a cliche than a trophy. I just want to feel alive again. Just for ONE. BLOODY. DAY."

Jason was stunned by the raw anger in her voice, thrumming like high-tension steel cables.

Doubly-stunned by the idea that Bianca, of all people, was lonely and unfulfilled.

Triply-stunned by the notion that you could have a wife as hot as Mrs Censori and not be stuffing her like a Thanksgiving turkey twenty-five hours a day. Damn, Kanye's even crazier than I thought.

But then, Ye didn't seem to ever be at the mansion.

Jason had cleaned the West pool for weeks. He'd seen Bianca at a distance many times. He'd never seen Kanye. Or at least, he'd never seen a man he could ID conclusively as Kanye.

Once or twice he'd witnessed a slump-shouldered figure stumbling across the lawn, face wrapped in what looked like trash bags. It might have been a security guard, it might have been a homeless person, it might have been the lord of the manor. Who could tell anymore?

Many rumors swirled about Kanye. That he hadn't been seen in public for weeks. That he was blowing off media commitments. That he was missing studio dates.

"Where's Kanye?" he asked innocently...and was rewarded with a crushing squeeze to his balls.

"I will give you one warning. I don't want to hear that name out of your mouth ever again. Keep your mouth shut, stop thinking about my supposed husband, and enjoy this."

Supposed husband? What does that mean? "Sorry!" he jabbered. "I'm just trying to understand..."

Bianca pushing the back of his head deeper into the wet, dark gulch of her cleavage. Her flesh nearly swallowed his skull. The lips snaked close enough to brush his ear.

"There's a lot about me that you don't understand." Her grip didn't tighten on his balls, but it threatened to. "So don't try."

Her handjob took him over the edge. Bianca seemed to know his orgasm was coming before he did. One final flick of his shaft, she drew her hand away...and then he pig-squealed.

His pink cock bucked like a shotgun underwater, and six ropes of cum spewed out. They pulsed out of his hitching, jerking balls in unbroken ropes, the strands coiling and twisting through water like living white worms.

"That was quick!" Bianca giggled, as the cum-strands drifted away, sucked into the pool ventilation. "You must have been really backed up."

Jason sagged back into her body, panting. Her boobs flowed around his ears like sails. He'd beaten off twice that day (and four times the day before), but didn't think mentioning this would help his case.

Bianca vanished. Her lips were gone from his ear. Her breasts were no longer draped across his shoulders like pontoon floats. He heard her splashing for the poolside, giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Come to the house." Her skipping bare feet rung bassy notes on the ladder. "I want your body in my bed, Jason. I want to defile it."

Ugh. Jason felt like he'd ejaculated his spinal fluid out through his cock. He drifted to the pool's edge, exhausted. The thought of more sex rolled a truck over him.

"I can't get hard again," he whimpered.

Bianca didn't reply. She just climbed out of the pool, letting water pour down her glistening curves of thigh, back, and ass. She wrung a miniature explosion of water from her hair, which settled into stark hedgehog spikes around her shoulders.

She swung her head back toward him, smiled, and slowed her walk down.

Slowed it to a lascivous, wanton plod.

Jason watched that thick sun-browned ass tick-tock maddeningly from side to side. Her obscene, flesh-heavy buttocks wobbled as she swung and seesawed her hips. Wiggling. Wriggling. Jiggling. Occasionally, they trembled apart, granting glimpses of her moist, dark asshole.

Ten slow steps.

That was all it took to make him a liar.

* * *

Inside the mansion, things moved at lightning speed.

He felt caught inside a whirlwind. The world was shattered images. Fractured glimpses. Broken mirror shards, auguring impossible dreams.

"Catch me if you can!" Bianca led him on a frantic hunt. She was always one step ahead, always darting out of reach. "Come! Keep up!" She hurled scraps of encouragement at him as his hands snatched for her flying tits and ass, closing on empty air instead. She had an eerie ability to predict what he'd do.

His erect cock jutting from his hips, Jason chased her from one side of the Tadao Ando-designed hacienda to the other, leaving a trail of water over the expensive hardwood. He skidded, knocking over what appeared to be a priceless Ming vase. Smash. Bianca didn't even look at it. She just threw back her fat ass toward him, slapped it, and smiled. "Catch me, Jason! Catch me!"

He pursued her up the stairs, through an Italian-style mezzanine level, and then into Bianca's bedroom. It was plain and functional. The bedroom of an architect, of a mind focused on structures rather than surfaces. It was dominated by a huge four-poster bed, as big as Jason's entire UCLA college dorm room, with a mirror mounted on the wall above. When you fucked on this bed, you fucked for an audience—even if that audience was yourself.

Bianca leaped onto the bed with the grace of liquid mercury flowing through the air—a glint of sun-browned flesh briefly caught the sun through the window, flashing fire like a serpent's flicking tail—and waved for Jason to climb on top of her.

She spread her bulky, muscular thighs apart like a whore. My whore. The thought made his heart skip a beat.

The sight of her splayed legs dried up moisture in Jason's mouth. The soft downlights gleamed on the fibers of her gym-bulked quadriceps.

"What's the story, morning glory?" Bianca asked, her mouth a lascivious slant, resting her arms on the pillows. "Are you gonna fuck it, or just look at it?"

Jason stared at her shaven pussy in confusion. And faint disgust. The flaps were far meatier than most of the women in porn. He could smell a pungent, off-putting aroma. That's the thing virgin boys don't realize about porn. It doesn't smell.

To buy time, he glanced at the corners of the room. Left? A window with the Venetian blinds drawn. Right? A heap of loose, discarded black clothes, wadded up in a corner to waist-height. It looked like several baskets' worth. Jason found this strangely encouraging. I guess the rich and famous can be slobs about their laundry too.

Bianca loudly cleared her throat, and he joined her on the bed. "Sorry."

Her heat of her glowing Aussie flesh radiated out, touching him like a furnace. A shard of lust pierced his crotch.

They came together. They kissed. Then they embraced, gripping and caressing, causing shivers to spike through each others' bodies. Hot hands explored Jason's back; sharp fingernails dug into Jason's skin. He moaned with desire, a shudder wracking his goosepimpled flesh.

Bianca took control, dragging him on top of her, squeezing him against her breasts, then twisting her buxom figure around until his skinny body was underneath hers'. The convolutions of her sinuous flesh continued, until he was on top again. Rinse. Repeat. Around and around and around. Jason became dizzy with the circles she was spinning around him. When she was on top, her big tits flowed over him like molten wax, burying him in their obscene heat and weight. When he was on top, he had to struggle not to slide off. He was still slippery-wet from the pool. He felt like an awkward and ungainly puzzle piece trying to fit into a picture that was already full and complete.

She has a perfect body. A perfect life. Kanye's never here. She could have anyone..., he thought as kisses stole away his breath. Their eyes locked. Virginal fear striking sparks off cold, cardsharp confidence. How can she possibly want...me?

As he stared into her face—alluring yet cold, etiolated of passion—he became uncomfortably sure that the answer was she doesn't.

So why was she fucking him?

Awkwardly flailing, Jason clasped her breasts. They were so big they dwarfed his hands. He slid his sweaty palms to her muscle-packed waist, which made his look like a sack of potatoes. He glanced up at the wall-mounted mirror, and shrank from what he saw. A tiny, lumpy goblin trying to court an Olympian goddess. None of this makes sense. I'm not even hot.

He heard a sound then. A soft, liquid gurgle.

He didn't know where it had come from. Down the hall? From inside the walls? It sounded halfway between a blocked pipe suddenly clearing, and a voice. A toothless mouth, slurring out some fragment of an alien language.

"Fuck me!" whispered Bianca urgently, gripping his cock and pumping it to hardness.

She butterflied her thick thighs backward, allowing her naked flesh to form an archway. Her legs formed a triangle. A pointing arrow, showing him the way.

"Fuck me!" The repeated words were now deeper. Throatier. Her eyes were challenging. Bold. A bandleader calling a tune he didn't know.

Shivering, the chlorinated poolwater long-dried and replaced with a sticky, anxious sweat, Jason aimed his cock at her shaven pussy. Six years of using his hand, and now he was about to fuck one of the most famous women in America.

His penile glans met resistance at her entrance. He canted and tilted his hips, found the angle, and the resistance fell away, replaced by a yielding female softness. He contracted his gluteus muscles, and there it was. Penetration.

Holy shit! He thought. I'm inside Bianca Censori's pussy!

He gasped as he was swallowed by the moist heat of her rippling vaginal rugae. Her shuddering twat swallowed him, dragging down into her clasping depths.

Eyes wide with shock, he started to fuck Kanye's wife on their marriage bed.

Kanye's supposed wife.

* * *

Sex was very different to masturbating.

His hand weighed practically nothing. He could effortlessly change the angle and pressure of his fingers. By contrast, Bianca's gripping snatch was attached to a hundred-thirty-plus pounds of woman, which he had no ability to move. Changing the slant of his thrusts meant awkwardly re-orienting his hips.

At first, she was too dry, and his cock chafed on her walls. She grimaced, and not from pleasure. He slowed down. Soon after, she started lubricating, drowning him in female pre-cum. So much so that it was a struggle to stop his erection from slipping out.

His penis glided through Bianca's slippery depths. He flexed his hips until he'd slithered all the way up inside her, triggering a delirious cascade of squishes and squelches from inside her twat.

He bottomed out, his balls trembling against her puckered asshole. Holy fucking shit, I don't believe it. He was balls deep in Kanye's new wife! He felt and heard the fleshy ripples of her vaginal walls as his cock burrowed in and out of her fuckslot. He gazed wide-eyed at the forbidden joining of their hips. Wherever Ye is—and whatever Ye's doing—it can't be better than this.

He heard another odd gurgle. Louder than before. Very close. Neither in the hall nor the walls.

In the room.

Jason's eyes cut right then left, but saw nothing. Just the window and the pile of clothes.

"Did you just hear a noise?" He was afraid. His cock slid out, suddenly going limp.

Bianca didn't answer. She hooked her muscular arms around him and pulled him into the mountains of her boobs. Breastmeat puddled around his face—fuck the pool, Bianca had enough flesh to swim in.

"Fuck me like an animal, Jason," she whispered urgently, grinding her nipples against his eyes. "I like it deep. And hard."

She writhed her hips, and he spiked his prick back into her with a plop.

Jason frantically fucked Bianca for a few minutes, shafting his cock and out, moist squelches and slurps dissipating from their slapping crotches. A wet musky sex smell enveloped them as they mashed and humped their genitals together.

His wild, erratic thrusts smoothed, becoming slower, surer, more focused. I'm figuring this out. Sex isn't so hard. But is she enjoying it? Bianca wasn't complaining or correcting him. I guess that's a good sign? But how do I make her cum? Two hundred gigabytes of saved internet pornography had not prepared him for this in the slightest.

He tried to kiss her lips, and she redirected his face back into her chest. Warm, pillowy-soft, chlorine-stinking tits enveloped Jason's face, the odor making his pulse speed like Nitrous Oxide injected into a high-performance rally car. His heart was hitting like a triphammer. Parts of the world were exploding forward in frantic fast forward, others moved in languid waltz-time. He was young and in lust. Everything was right.

...Everything was wrong.

He heard no moans of pleasure from Bianca.

Saw no signs that she was happy.

When he heard the gurgle again, he lifted his eyes from Bianca's spreadeagled body to the mirror. The pile of clothes in the corner was moving. Shifting. Warped contours of fabric and heaved and palpitated, as though the clothes enclosed a beating heart.

The gurgling gained intensity. Loudness. Focus. It filled the room, overwhelmed the lewd sound of their pummeling crotches, becoming the central fact about reality that everything gavotted around.

As the sickly, swirling noise blasted into the center of his brain, it twisted viscerally, knotting his flesh with skeins of icy pleasure. He no longer wondered what was causing it. The hideous alien sound just existed. An unchallenged fact.

Much like the orgasm suddenly erupting from his balls, it simply was.

"Ah! Ah! AHHH!" Jason squeaked, jackhammering his hips. He bottomed out in Bianca's pussy, and started squirting.

Jason hosed out a copious load of cum, cock twitching as he creampied her against the silk bedsheets. He looked up, and saw her watch him calmly. There was not a trace of sweat on her face. Nor a trace of pleasure.

He pulled out of her sperm-flooded pussy, feeling guilty at shooting his wad so fast.

"Bianca... I'm sorry..."

"Why are you sorry?"

"I...didn't make you cum."

Bianca's laugh rang out prettily, like the sound of a bronze-cast Ghanta bell. She clasped his shoulders. Raising her arms caused her boobs to flow off her chest, piling in soft ivory within the dark sweaty hollows of her armpits.

"You've given me something better than an orgasm."

"Wh...what have I given you?"

He didn't understand.

And Bianca didn't answer.

Her eyes had the depth of doorways, and he gazed within. There, reflected, he saw himself propped over her body.

There was a shape standing behind him!

Too indistinct to decipher, it seemed to ripple darkly over his shoulder, like smoke. An oilspill of dark fear drowned his mind. What the fuck is going on?

Jason lifted his eyes up to the mirror, and saw nothing. No dark shape over his shoulder. Just a normal room, with a normal bed, and a normal window, and a normal...

—wait—

...the pile of clothes was now strewn over the ground. As if something had been concealed under them all along, and had now crawled free.

"I don't understand..." he croaked.

Bianca's hot palm cupped his cheek. "Don't look in the mirror. Don't look in my eyes. Just look."

He heard the rustling sound of dead leaves; heard sickly, snuffly breathing, felt the air of an ancient and monstrous sky against his back.

Jason did not lift his eyes back to the mirror. It couldn't be seen there.

Instead, he twisted his head around.

...and there it was.

Something unexpected and surprising stood in the room. Something Jason would have never guessed existed, or even could exist.

He screamed. It destroyed his mind. Erased his sanity. Hurled him plunging into madness, throwing him into a wide-open space with no bottom. He stood there, shrieking and insane, spinning through the vast gulf that had been ripped out of his skull.

The thing in Bianca's bedroom hung off the edge of human comprehension. It made no sense. It was a scented perianth trembling in Antarctica, a baleful carillon pealing doom through the vacuum of space, impossible to believe in, impossible to ignore, fully dismantling his understanding of reality, overwriting all knowledge with its unfathomable oneirodynic self. Scientific conjecture, philosophical cant, religious catechism—everything was wiped out from his head with the ease of a hand brushing cobwebs from an empty cupboard.

The impossible, awful thing swelled in his horrorstruck irises, surged like death into the space behind them. The remnants of his consciousness imploded, collapsing into a reeling abysm of nightmares and wind and dust fragments that dissolved down to nothing—and nothing except for nothing.

He fell forever into the dark.



Chapter 2: Kim Kardashian

"Uh! Uh! UH!"

Kim Kardashian's bedroom stank of sweat, sperm, and sloppy, messy buttfucking.

Sprawled face-down on the jolting bed, she flipped open a Volupte obsidian compact, unscrewed a nude Charlotte Tilbury lipstick, and began applying a fresh coat to her arched and pursed lips. Staring at the compact mirror, she ignored the rude coital chorus of squelches and slurps gushing from behind her; the pounding, surging rhythm of flesh corkscrewing flesh.

slklch-sqlch-skrrrchh-schlooorrrppp

She tilted the mirror upwards ten degrees, and watched her afternoon entertainment pound his cock straight up her ravenous shit-pipe.

"Wanna hear something messed up?" the man grunted, slamming between Kim's obscenely spread legs. "They found a dead kid in a sewer culvert the other day."

Kim puckered her lips, checking the coverage. Interesting pillow talk.

"Dunno why I remembered it," he said. "It's just fucked up, is all."

She twisted her big breeding hips around his thickness. "Less talk, more dick. Can you get it any deeper into my ass?"

He couldn't. That was her gift. Her curse.

Kimberly Noel Kardashian's butt was gigantic. It lay piled on the bed, a colossal, wheelbarrow-sized mountain of flesh that had never seen a thong it couldn't devour, a back-sewn dress it couldn't split, a face it couldn't suffocate, a cock it couldn't utterly humiliate.

Today's victim was a part-time masseuse, full-time gigolo called Hector Lazaretto. He was not a small-hung man. The cock he was thumping into her butthole was eight inches long, and as thick as her arm. Yet even it was diminished by the obscene size of her wagon.

She'd discovered a taste for anal in her senior year of high school, after losing a bet with her older sister. Kourtney had buggered her with a novelty strap-on while black-out drunk. Or at least Kourt had claimed to be black-out drunk. Kim was pretty sure there had been sparkling water in that bottle. She'd slammed two shots herself: they hadn't even buzzed her.

She'd earned reknown as an anal queen during college. Now, she was an anal empress. Few men could keep up with her appetites, though many tried.

"Sorry, Kim," Hector admitted, her colossal buttocks wobbling and sloshing as he yanked out his cock. "You're...a lot."

"I try to be a lot." Kim applied another coat. "Keep trying. You had it before."

"I just can't stop thinking about that dead kid..." Hector gritted his teeth, and gripped palm-overflowing handfuls of derriere. "It's so fucking sad."

He spread her cheeks apart, trying to get more access to her fat ass. A suffocating, moist chasm of ass-meat opened before him, exposing a musky, sweltering cleft, circumvallated by majestically wobbling buttocks, their vast hemispheres marbled with cellulite. Kim's giant MILF ass was simply beyond excessive. The valley of her butt-crack was so deep you could seemingly shove your whole fucking arm down into it and not hit the bottom.

Hector placed his giant cockhead against her puckered asshole, and slooowly thrust forward, watching her anal ring dilate to swallow his engorged penis. Stretching her asscheeks far apart like pizza dough, he made little humps, grinding his cock in deeper, until finally he lost his grip on her sweaty ass, and fell to the bottom of Kim's slurping rectum.

PLAP!

His balls clapped flush against her taint. "Ooooh..." Kim hissed, flipping the compact shut as her buttcheeks trembled. Give the devil his due: she'd felt that.

"The cops have no idea how he died," Hector spread her legs even further. "COD was cardiac arrest. But he was fucking eighteen! Kids that young don't have heart attacks. None of it tracks."

"Mmm." Kim was barely listening. The cocktip was now jabbing and throbbing inside her guts, squirming maddeningly against her G-Spot. She lived for that feeling.

Pulling back, Hector began rhythmically fucking her bowels, squeezing himself into her nether passage, pushing his surging shaft deeply between Kim's buttocks. She spread her legs further as he speared as deep as he could. "UH!" Kim rocked forward, letting the compact fall to the bedsheets.

"What was the kid's name again?" Hector mused as he used handfuls of her huge buttocks like handles, steering his pulsating shaft down the bottom of her dirty shit-chute. "Fuck. I can't remember."

SCHLUP SCHLUP SCHLUP!

"Jackson? Johnson? Tip of my tongue."

Talkative fucker, aren't you? The only Johnson I care about is the one up my ass.  And you'd better pray to whatever saints love you that it doesn't suffer a premature heart attack.

"OHH! UGH!" Kim tossed her sweat-soaked black hair onto her back. "HARDER!"

Her beautiful face twisted in dick-drunk lust. She flexed her muscular left thigh forward to gain leverage, and drove her ass back against his pounding crotch, grinding and swiveling her ginormous dump truck ass against his groin.

Hector pounded Kim's thick rump, slamming her ass so hard that droplets of sweat flew from the jiggling surfaces. As eight inches truncheoned savagely into her depths, ripples of pleasure spiraled inward with remorseless precision. The ceaseless SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! of flesh beating flesh echoed like percussion, her moans lying across the rhythm in a protracted G-Funk whine.

"Or maybe his name was Jason." SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! "Not sure."

Hector picked up force, driving into the bed, pummeling with his hips like he was trying to fuck Kim straight through the mattress. He dicked her with a surgeon's care, a sledgehammer's brute force. Kim lay flat with her huge breasts pressed into the sweat-damp bedsheets, gripping them as he dicked her right into screaming, squirting climax.

"And ya know what else is spooky?" Hector said as a huge anal orgasm fluxed across her core like a lightning storm.

"...they found the kid's body just a few hundred feet from your ex-husband's mansion. I wonder if he knows anything..."

Kim's eyes flew open. "What the fuck did you just say...UH...OH MY GOD I'M CUUUUUMMING!"

Her butthole contracted against his shaft as she bellowing hard enough to shake the walls.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHH! BUHHHHHHHHH! OHMYGOD I LOVE YOUR COCK SO MUCH!"

Her face sunk into the pillow, swallowing the animalistic scream. Her stacked, big-titted body shook. She humped the bed wildly, uncontrollable with lust—female squirt blasting like buckshot into the second pillow she'd placed under her hips to soak up her ejaculations.

Hector had fucked Robert Kardashian's whorish daughter through at least three hundred orgasms in the two months they'd been screwing, and he'd become highly skilled at managing them. Gripping her hips, he lifted them up just enough to get access to her gushing cunt. His hand found her clit, and began to grind rhythmically with the blunt side of his thumb. She cried out in delirious lust-language, sweat flying from her body as an orgasm that had been dying away suddenly exploded back to life, and then just kept going on and on and on...

Thirty seconds later, Kim was still humping his hand like a lust-maddened dog, screaming the roof down. Once she'd finally calmed, Hector resumed the ass-reaming, hammering his hips into her slurping butt with hard, blurring strokes.

He's good. Kim upgraded him from being a top 10 lover to a top 5. And with post-nut clarity, she remembered what he'd said about a dead body near Kanye's place. Hmm. That seems like a problem.

With a flick of her wrist, she snatched her iPhone from the dresser, and texted someone.

BIANCA, YOU STUPID BITCH!

Hector ignored the fact that Kim was on her phone, mid-sex. It was next-level rude, but men will put up with a lot when you're Kim Fucking Kardashian.

A reply came back.

Aww, what did I do this time.

Claps echoed from the walls like bomb blasts as each pounding thrust slammed Kim's bulky ass. She texted, her spellcheck software catching far more typos than usual.

Oh, no biggie. The cops FOUND THE KID'S FUCKING BODY. That's all.

WTF?? They couldn't have. I hid it in a drain.

Then why is the man I'm fucking TELLING ME ABOUT IT? He even mentioned that it was close to YOUR house. Idiot!

OMG, that's bad. Sorry.

Kim tensed her beautiful face, body wobbling like jelly. Caught between anger on one side, and brutal, piledriving thrusts on the other, she felt renewed bursts of pleasure gushing out from her core. Hector worked between her asscheeks like the hard-laboring union protagonist in a Bruce Springsteen song, and Kim began to sweat as another massive cum closed in like a vulture.

Hurriedly, she composed a text before her hands started shaking too much.

BE CAREFUL. I don't want to go to jail because of this, Bianca. Drive the body far away next time. Go to one of the drop sites my mom told you about.

Will do. I take it that you're with your sacrifice right now?

Kim climaxed again, screaming at the top of her lungs.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Hector continued to burrow into her guts with sloppy squelching sounds. She gasped, bellowing and clutching the bedsheets. A socialite, reduced to a witless, sex-obsessed pig.

Bianca's reply blipped back.

Sounds like he's giving you the business.

Sucks to lose him. There's not enough quality dick in the world. Let me bust one more nut and then I'll trigger the Gédé loa.

Okay, live your best life!

Kim returned the phone to her bedside dresser; returned her attention to Hector.

They fucked and fucked, the pungent air permeated by the thick, musky smell of woman in heat, getting railed up the ass. Her legs thrashed and flopped. Her pussy yawned and spasmed. The walls of the room seemed to sweat with the crude, loud sounds of their copulation. Sweat was absolutely pouring from Kim's tanned brown flesh—she actually saw the windows of her bedroom start fogging up.

She was swallowed by lust...by depravity...by the knowledge of what she was about to unleash on this man.

He's really bringing his A-game. It's like he knows, somehow, that this is the last time we'll fuck.

Kim gritted her teeth. He pulled his slick length out of her asshole until only the plum-sized head remained inside her. Then he pounded it back it. Her head snapped back. Her eyes closed. A moan slipped out through the quarantine of her clenched jaw.

"MOOORRRE!!"

WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP!

Kim whined and gripped the banisters of her bed. She began banging her hips back into his pelvis, matching her muscles against the reciprocal springs of the mattress. Sweat ribboned down her shoulders, down her arms, down her back, from her big, piled-up breasts stacked beneath her chin.

"OOOOOOGHHHHUGHHHH! GONNA CUM AGAIN!!" she roared.

Big manly hands siezed her shoulders for leverage. A giant prick squelched all the way in, buried itself balls deep in her asshole for over five long seconds, and then his balls contracted.

"Take my load, you fucking big-assed whore!"

Hector released his PC muscles and let his cum fly.

Gusts of hot thick sperm surged up from his balls, blasting out through his cock like a firehose. Kim closed her eyes in ecsasy, feeling torrents of baby batter paint the walls of her poop-chute, slathering it in hot, sticky cum. White splooge flooded her ass, mixing with the two other loads he'd ejaculated there that afternoon.

A mini-orgasm spiralled through her core, half as strong as a full one. That suited her. In a weird way, she resented full-body anal orgasms, and the loss of control they represented. A climax was just a fun sneeze: you became a meatpuppet. A slave of biology. Evolution's bitch.

Kim didn't like being evolution's bitch. She liked having power over events; a mind that controlled matter.

As her orgasm simmered down, she felt the tug of the Gédé loa, throwing itself against its otherwordly chain.

Hector pulled his exhausted shaft out of her poop-chute, and relaxed beside her. "Damn. What a rush! They musta tore the Q chapter outta your dictionary, girl, 'cos you don't know the meaning of quit."

Kim purred happily on the bedsheets, cum sluicing and bubbling out of her bowels. Yeah, I watched that shitty movie too. "Hector?"

"Ready for another butt-blasting already?"

God bless him, she actually felt his penis swelling against the supine curve of her rump. A true Renaissance woman, Kim normally liked to pack at least four or five sessions into an afternoon, before picking up her kids from school.

She lay a hand on his shoulder. "Are you a voyeur, Hector?"

"I am if that's what you want, baby."

She felt an energy stirring in the room, surging in the walls. Like a shadow, with no body to shape it, and no light to cast it. It gathered, incipient and ancient and malicious. As reliable as Hector himself, it prepared to strike. You could feel the Gédé loa itching in your teeth. Aching in your bones.

She sensed the underworld ready to tear free into the material realm, like a broken bone spearing out through skin.

Kim spoke calmly and coolly.

"There's something watching us right now."

"Is there?"

"Turn around. See its face."

He did.

Kim squeezed shut her eyes as the screaming started.

She didn't watch Hector's final moments as the afterlife's black door flew open. That was unhealthy for both soul and sanity. Once the litany of noises gurgled away to silence, she texted Bianca Censori.

It's done. Two down, one left.

So now we just need Amber to do her part. Have you spoken to her?

Yeah. No dice. Says she wants no part of this anymore.

I'll call her. Persuade her to see reason. It's all for nothing if she doesn't cooperate.

The ritual required that all three of them participate. Bianca had made her sacrifice. Kim had made her sacrifice.

The third witch, unfortunately, had fallen in love with hers.

* * *



Chapter 3: Amber Rose

"Oh! Ah! Baby!"

Amber Rose fucked her fiance cowgirl style, riding him with her hips, his six inch shaft spearing upward into her cunt.

The man beneath her bucking body clasped her oversized breasts, clapping them together, squeezing with his fingers. Lex's mouth opened and hollowed in sepulchral shapes, giving birth to gasps and grunts. Amber loved seeing the effect she was having on him. His moaning face did far more for her than the penis he was fucking her with.

"AHHH!" Lex bellowed. "THAT FEELS SO GOOD, BABY!"

Amber closed her eyes, focusing her pussy walls on the prick cleaving through her slavering, dripping gash. She humped with her big meaty hindquarters, grinding her clit against his prick, visualizing her climax as a train slowly approaching over the horizon.

Just five more minutes 'till it pulls into the station. Come on, Alex. You can do it!

Her fiance writhed, caught between her splayed thighs. A Venus Thigh-Trap. Amber Rose was a machine built for fucking. Her body was a high-performance engine that every rapper with an RIAA cert on his mantlepiece from the last thirty years had at least taken for a test spin. Not that I'm that woman anymore, she thought. But I still know a thing or two when it comes to dick.

Lex was no match for those rolling grinds of her hips.

Three minutes still left before the Orgasm Train pulled into the station, he moaned sharply. Amber felt his cock leap and thrash inside her pussy, shooting out his wad. In her mind, Amber saw the Orgasm Train jump the tracks and fold itself like an accordion into a canyon. Ker-smash!

Alex Vandross's sated cock flopped out of her pussy, spilling cum into his belly-button. Amber sighed. Tried to convince herself that it was a sigh of pleasure, and not disappointment. Whatever. Sex is still pretty good even when you don't get off...

...I guess?

She dismounted, swinging a thick thigh around him, spooning him and plunging kisses into his neck. Sweat glistening on his forehead, he squeezed her heavy haunches.

"I love you so much, babe," Lex whispered in the near-dark. "You mean the world to me."

You mean the world to me. Typical male nothing. She'd heard six hundred guys say variations of those words after she'd Hoovered sperm from their balls. Lex wasn't even the first one to sound like he'd meant it.

But he was the first whose actions backed it up. In a world of fakers and users and players, Lex was a true man. A real man.

It was worth a missed orgasm.

* * *

Amber Rose considered herself reformed. Living proof that you could turn a hoe into a housewife.

After years of riding the famous cock merry-go-round, she was tired of it. Sick of LA's soul-sucking emptiness, its moral bankruptcy. This place is evil. The quicker it falls into the sea, the better. Whoever called it the City of Angels got it twisted: the only angels I see are fallen ones.

She'd gotten clean, and started AA. No more alcohol and blow. She'd replaced parties and orgies with church every Sunday, packing her ludicrous, drawn-by-a-horny-fourteen-year-old figure into demure clothes, dealing with shameless ogling from the men of the congregation, and judgmental stares from their wives.

God built me this way, you holy-rolling bitches, so fuck y'all. Got a problem? Get on your knees and file a complaint with the man upstairs.

And now she was engaged to Alex Vandross, a private security guard who worked for Tiffany & Co at Santa Monica Boulevard. He was a no-surprises kind of guy. Reliable. Safe. Trustworthy. The polar opposite of every other man she'd dated. Their wedding was scheduled for May. Lex had suggested that maybe she grow out her hair for it. He said he found it emasculating that his girlfriend was buzzed shorter than he was. She was considering it. You couldn't upend your entire personality in just one year. Plus, the buzzcut was fucking iconic.

Also, no more witchcraft.

She'd put all of that behind her.

* * *

In bed, she waited to perform her nightly ritual, which was profoundly unmagical. As soon as he snores, sneak off to the bathroom to masturbate.

Amber curved and curled her form around him like a big cat, pressing her hip girdle into his muscular body. She reached for the remote, and clicked on the TV mounted on the wall.

A news broadcast filled the bedroom.

"—in other news, a missing person hunt is now in progress for Hector Lazaretto, a masseuse and amateur pornographic film actor reported missing by his sister on Friday. Hector was a self-styled 'stress reliever to the stars', and his rumored client list included Beyonce Knowles, Oprah Winfrey, Doja Cat, Miley Cyrus, and Kim Kardash-."

At the sound of that last name. Amber switched off the TV with a violent stab. Her heartbeat seemed to flood out into the sudden quiet.

They're doing it again. The rite. Why? It's useless without me, and I'm done with all that shit. I've got a future. I'm in love. I won't help them. I won't.

"Babe, what's wrong?" Lex murmured.

She kicked his ankles playfully, trying not to appear anxious. "Something on the news."

"That Hector guy a friend of yours?" he sounded mock-jealous.

"He's my side piece," Amber said.

They both laughed. There was love in the laughter. Love, and trust.

Once he was snoring, she slipped out of bed. As she did, he heard him drowzily whisper a word into the pillow. "Sophie..."

Amber lifted an eyebrow in wonder. Who's Sophie?

* * *

Making as little noise as possible, she installed herself in the bathroom, and locked the door. This time, the battery-powered Vibratex stayed in her makeup drawer.

She had a feeling that she was about to get a call.

Her phone rang. A deleted contact's number was on the dial.

"Hi, Amber". The woman had an Australian accent.

"I'm not doing it again, Bianca. I told you."

I've done my part of the summoning, and Kim's done hers. But we need yours.

"Fuck off. This is not who I am. For God's sake, you're killing people!"

"You used to say it wasn't murder."

"And I was lying, every time I said it. Do you hear a guilty voice in your head while you do it, Bianca? Really listen to it. It's telling the truth."

Bianca's voice dropped to secret-whispering volume.

"You think I'm doing it for fun, Amber? We're both fucked if the truth gets out, and you know it. Kim will be fine, but you and I rely on the West estate for money. If he doesn't make a public appearance soon, there's gonna be an inquiry. This inquiry will uncover all sorts of unpleasant facts, his estate will fall into administration, and I lose access to the Ye credit card. So do you."

"Doesn't change my answer," Amber snarled. "I'm not doing the ritual."

"It's not THE ritual, girl. It's YOUR ritual. You created it. Guided every part of it. You were so eager to do it once. What changed?"

"I changed." A tremor undermined Amber's voice. "I'm—I'm not the person I was."

Liar,". Bianca sounded smug. "You're exactly the same person. Act all self righteous, marry that douchebag security guard, but the real you is gonna come out eventually.

"Don't talk shit about Alex. He's a better person than you'll ever be."

"Ha. Men are all the same. One of these days, he's gonna rip your heart out of your chest, and then you'll look in the mirror, and see the old Amber Rose staring back. A witch, who commands all of hell."

Amber hung up the phone and showered. Trying to get the sick, clammy guilt feeling of guilt off her skin.

Bianca's wrong. I'm not like them anymore.

Then she went back to bed with the man who, one month ago, she'd planned on killing.

* * *

The story of the Kanye witch coven was complicated, but not complex.

The crux of the matter: Ye was dead.

Not morally or artistically dead, although Pitchfork and Anthony Fantano would surely beg to differ. Dead dead. He had croaked; had kicked the bucket; had assumed room temperature; had been sent off to a wonderful farm out in the country. Kanye Omari West was no longer alive.

It had happened in 2016, while recording a never-released followup to The Life of Pablo. He'd fallen in with a gang of three producers, who'd turned out to be literal human garbage, the worst friends he could have possibly made. They'd booked sessions at some ghetto studio where two Soundcloud mumble rappers had already committed suicide, and for five days, Kanye and his dubious new pals had holed up in there, doing God knew what. The session had apparently devolved into a party, then into an orgy, and then finally into a tragedy.

Kim had become frantic with worry. Day after day passed, and nobody would tell her what her husband was doing. He wasn't picking up his phone. The producers wouldn't allow her into the studio. By the time she got through the door via a court order, it was too late.

Kanye was lying on the floor, not breathing. His esophagus was blocked with vomit. He'd been deceased for hours. Overdose? A tainted batch of drugs? Deliberate murder? Impossible to say.

It was Kim's belief that the three producers had tampered with the scene of Kanye's death, to obfuscate what had happened. The rest of the studio was a pigsty, but the area where Kanye lay had been swept and mopped clean. There was no evidence that anyone had tried to call an ambulance or administer first aid.

Ultimately, she couldn't prove her suspicions. The producers had been smart. They'd arranged things so they'd never see the inside of a courtroom.

Kim had been distraught to lose her husband. And Amber Rose and Alexis Phifer—an OG member of the coven, later replaced by Bianca Censori—had also been distraught on a less personal, more mercenary level, as they'd been reliant on various cash payments from Kanye's estate. Indeed, the man's passing would derail the gravy train for a lot of people. His record label had stifled news of Kanye's death, while they tried to plan a next move.

It was Amber who'd proposed a solution. A way for Kim to receive closure, and for herself and Alexis to receive money.

"The central problem," Amber had said. "Is that Kanye is dead. Correct?"

She sussed out the table with sharp, mouselike eyes. Neither of the women disagreed.

"So what if he could not be dead? What if he suddenly reappeared in public again, alive and well?"

Kim and Alexis had laughed in her face. Assumed she was planning some ridiculous Weekend At Bernie's caper involving a paid body double or something.

Like most people, they underestimated Amber.

They had no idea what she was capable of.

* * *

Every woman Kanye had ever romanced had her secrets. Closets full of skeletons, as well as Louis Vitton.

Bianca Censori—a recent addition to the Coven—was not actually an architect. She had never graduated school. That was a bullshit cover story to disguise who she really was.

Kim had never told the truth about her past. Yes, the sex tape hadn't been leaked, it had been released on purpose. Very boring and obvious. What was less obvious was that she'd never been Paris Hilton's personal stylist, either. She had worked for Miss Hilton, but not as a stylist. She'd performed duties of a more clandestine nature.

For Amber, it was her ancestry.

As documented on Wikipedia, Amber Rose Levonchuck had an Irish-Italian father, and a Cape Verdean mother. Not mentioned was the fact that her 5th great grandmother (on her maternal side) was Marie Laveau, the voodoo witch queen who had controlled a large section of New Orleans' French Quarter during the middle of the 19th century.

Through her mom's side of her family, Amber had inherited many of Madame Laveau's books, along with various trinkets, fetishes, and Haitian gris-gris artifacts. Some, she'd sold to pay bills. Others, she'd kept.

Death was a doorway. Perhaps the final doorway. But the thing about doorways? They allow travel in both directions.

It was vaguely possible that Kanye—or at least some piece of Kanye—could be brought back from the other side.

* * *

Creolized Haitian voodoo believes in a two-part soul. Inside us are the ti-bon-ange (Little Good Angel) and the gros-bon-ange (Big Good Angel).

The gros-bon ange is the actual soul. The immortal, eternal fire—breathed out into us from God at the dawn of our lives—that animates every living thing, and which returns to the spirit world after we die.

The ti-bon-ange is the worldly aspect of who we are: our habits, our mannerisms, personality, and character. It's the things we don't have when we enter the world, and which we cannot take with us when we leave.

When a person dies, their gros-bon-ange immediately goes to heaven or hell. But because the ti-bon-ange touches the world so much, it frequently remains tethered to the mundane realm.

In the case of, say, a murder, you might expect the victim's ti-bon-ange to linger at the crime scene for a long time before dissolving. And a clever voodooist witch—or caplata, in the lingo—might invoke a contact with this spiritual presence.

Kim spent a huge amount of money securing 24/7 access to the studio where Kanye had died. She'd closed it to the public, and handed Amber the key. For weeks, she'd conducted rites, fixed tracks, laid bones, drew cards, sacrificed animals. Snakeskin had been nailed above the front door. Gris-gris dolls had been placed around the death room.

As Amber had anticipated, a piece of Kanye's soul was trapped in the building. And it was fucking angry.

She'd witnessed many terrifying and inexplicable things in that studio. The sliders on soundboard mixers would eerily shuttle up and down, with no hand to touch them. Loudspeakers spontaneously exploded in bursts of static. When she set up shotgun mics and left them recording all night, playback the following morning would reveal eerie whistles, rumbles, and snatches of voices echoing in the empty studio. Was this Kanye, communicating from beyond the grave?

Some of these ghostly mutters had been appropriated by his record label, given to other rappers, and used as samples on Kanye's weirder tracks through this period. Not "Lift Yourself", but certainly others.

Kim had listened to these recordings, and wished she hadn't. Kanye's ghost seemed to be howling and raging directly at her; the wife who'd failed to save him.

His ti-bon-ange had become a violent, malevolent spirit. Kanye was now a Gédé loa—the voodoo equivalent to a poltergeist.

* * *

So far, so bad. But Kanye's ti bon ange still needed a new body.

Amber had spent months studying Madame Laveau's encoded diaries, piecing together clues. And then wondering whether she had the nerve to go through with it. Steeling herself had been the hardest part. That, and living with the guilt afterward.

The three women formed a three-way caplata pact. Voodoo was as heavily influenced by Christianity as by animist African traditions, and like Christianity, it held the number three to have special power. The Holy Trinity. The three wise men. The three angels of judgment.

Each of the three witches would participate in the seduction of a man. They would fuck him in the presence of Kanye's Gédé loa, and let him cum inside their bodies.

Then, the spiritually cuckolded ghost of Kanye would fall on these rival males, vengeance-mad and retribution-ready, devouring their life essence and adding it to his own.

It wasn't murder, they'd all rationalized at the time. It was Kanye's Gédé loa killing these men. Their only role was to lure the men to the place they'd die.

Anyway, death is such an intellectually blinkered concept. To a voodooist, there is simply lifeforce, shuttled from one place to another. Pour a cup of water drown the drain, and the water has not died. It has gone elsewhere. Lifeforce is the same. They were just transferring energy out of underserving men, and into Kanye.

* * *

The first to die had been the three producers responsible for Kanye's death. Difficult to imagine more deserving targets.

Their freshly-fucked and demonically-drained bodies were disposed of by Kim, whose family had nearly boundless reserves of money, influence, and cleverness.

And then, a miracle had occurred. Kanye had returned, alive and whole and hearty. He had skin you could touch, lips you could kiss, shoulders you could hold. It took a long time to notice that something was wrong. Part of it was the deadness in his eyes. His affected mannerisms. The way he never seemed to be quite in the room with you. Also, he couldn't fuck. He seemed soulless, which was precisely the case.

There was no gros-bon-ange inside Kanye. He was still very much dead. This was just a very convincing facsimile, woven out of the energies of three dead men, and animated by the ti-bon-ange's decaying residue.

Kim had loved Kanye, but was unable to endure living with this eerie, not-quite-right copy. Divorce papers had followed, and Kanye had remarried the remorseless, power-hungry Bianca Censori—who made a splendid replacement for Alexis Phifer, who'd gotten cold feet and had fled far away, breaking her witch's compact. Bianca did not seem to have a soul either, and she hardly noticed Kanye's similar lack. They'd made a good pair.

But then a more serious problem presented itself.

Kanye's new body was slowly breaking down. Mottled lesions flourished grotesquely across his skin. Parts of him began falling away, as he rotted on his feet. Bianca would never forget going to use the bathroom after Kanye had showered. She'd found the drain clogged with several loose human toes.

The spell was unraveling, and so was Kanye's body.

The ritual would need to be done again. And again. And again.

* * *

The Kanye witch coven had been very careful. None of the deaths and disappearances were ever linked back to them, or were even being investigated as murders by the LAPD. Kim had inherited her father's guile, and could seemingly get ahead of any scandal.

Amber, Kim, and Bianca stalked the greater LA area like succubi. They didn't have to hunt very hard: their prey came flocking to them, eager to use their bodies and be used in turn. They were all so beautiful—or so compulsively sexual that it didn't matter if they were beautiful—and attracted men like flies. They had no shortage of victims.

Even if they knew the truth, they'd still line up for it, Amber had said as she'd helped Kim bury a body. Just to have a night with us. There had been more powerful witches in American history, but if female sexuality is sorcery, they had all the powers of hell inside them.

* * *

Until Amber had betrayed them.

Kanye's body had begun to decompose again. His skin peeled away like old paint. The flesh of his chin had grown infected, and maggots had eaten through his chin's subdermal tissue, exposing the bone of his jaw. His mind was turning to sludge: behind a mask, he'd ad-libbed his way through several horrifying interviews, provoking Adidas to cancel a billion-dollar contract.

The ritual would need to be re-consecrated, with urgent speed.

Bianca, Kim, and Amber had scoped out targets. A pool boy, a masseusse, and a security guard. Men at the low end of the totem pole. Men who nobody would miss much if they vanished. They were very efficient at this process by now. They'd research the target until they were sure it was safe, and then they'd strike.

...But then, Amber told them she was quitting. She had fallen in love with her man, and couldn't bear to kill him.

Kim and Bianca had been shocked. Yes, Alexis Phifer had already left the coven, but her heart had never been in it. But Amber had created the coven. She'd made all of this possible. She was the closest they had to a High Priestess.

I will never speak to anyone about what we did, she'd promised them. But it's time to let a dead thing stay dead. Leave me alone. And leave HIM alone.

And now Kim and Bianca were up shit creek.

Two witches could not perform the ritual. It required three.

* * *



Chapter 4: The Joining

Texts buzzed back and forth between the Kardashian and West mansions that night.

No good. Amber still won't help.

FUCK. Time's running out. The ritual needs to happen SOON. If Kanye's soul disappears, we won't be able to bring him back at all.

Why would it disappear?

The only reason it was staying in the mortal realm was because his murderers hadn't been caught. Now that they're dead, he's avenged. I'm guessing it passes on as soon as his body can no longer hold it. Who knows how long that'll be? A week? Less?

Ugh. We've tried everything.

Maybe you have. I haven't.

??

With all due respect, Bianca, you're still a child. Leave Amber to me. I know a way to make her complicit.

A way?

Let's just say I have leverage. There's a thing she doesn't know about yet.

* * *

That night, Amber was at the local Planet Fitness, doing lat pulldowns. Alex had the night shift at Tiffany's. She had a choice of being alone at home, or alone here. And in the dead watches of the night, she preferred the gym.

She heard the gym door open, and female intuition twigged. Somehow—just as she'd known the phone would ring in the bathroom—she knew who it was, before Kim even spoke.

"It's been a while, Amber."

Amber gritted her teeth, and dragged the bar down to her sports bra, which was stuffed to overflowing with her gigantic breasts.

"I know why you're here, bitch."

"Do you, now...?" Kim sashayed in front of her, bouncing her hips provocatively.

As she passed, Amber's gaze rode her butt like a mechanical bull, staring at the hugely fattened globes stretching her octopus leggings until they were nearly transparent.

"You're tryna lay guilt on me. So I'll do the ritual."

Kim sighed. "No, Amber. We've given up on that. You're probably right—let the dead stay dead."

Amber stared into Kim's dark-honey eyes, trying to detect a lie. "Then why are you here?"

Kim leaned against a weight rack, folding her arms under her own ponderous bosom.

"Because I miss an old friend? Can't it be as simple as that?"

Of course it can't be, Amber thought miserably. But I wish it was.

Kim gestured at the empty gym. "Looks like no-one else is here."

"So what are you thinking?"

Kim's umber gaze held fiendish mischief. Amber felt her blood leap beneath that stare, and what it meant. "That I want to take advantage of the fact that no-one else is here."

Sure. Amber was always down for rug-munching.

All of Kanye's ladies were bisexual, and fucked each other whenever they could—even the married ones. Girl-on-girl isn't cheating. And it wasn't as if Kanye was in any fit state to fuck them. Irina Shayk screwed Julia Fox. Alexis Pfifer screwed Brooke Crittendon. Chaney Jones screwed Amber Rose. Kim Kardashian screwed Bianca Censori.

Kim stepped forward brazenly. She groped Amber's massive football-sized tits, squeezing them and lifting them out of the sports bra, letting them flop out to her stomach.

"Always, it's the boobs," Amber smirked. "You're nothing if not predictable."

Kim kissed her friend with those iconic nudetone lips. "I've missed you, Amber. Really missed you."

"Same, doll. Just don't miss my clit."

Kim gave Amber her index finger, and the younger woman sucked it wetly. A little game they liked to play.

Amber shivered as Kim took the finger out, and began to write her name on Amber's skin using saliva. An older, alpha female marking her property. The moisture dried quickly, but the touch and the coolness lingered. She felt like she now bore the Kardashian signature. Was part of their franchise.

Her clit pulsed urgently in her booty shorts.

It had been a long while since she'd been properly fucked. Lex took her approximately seventy percent of the way to an orgasm when they had sex, and masturbation just wasn't the same. She wanted heat, wanted human skin, wanted connection. Life force could be stolen. But it was better when it was given willingly away.

The heavy-titted women embraced, and began kissing, lewdly exploring each others' mouths with their tongues. Kim seemed restless and depraved—her usual state—and Amber was all too willing to fall into that particular black hole once again.

As they greedily sucked face, Kim cast eyes at the gym door.

"Reckon we'll be disturbed if we fuck right here?"

Amber pointed up at the roof. "The problem is those cameras."

Kim swore under her breath. "They're not allowed to put cameras in the locker rooms, are they?"

"No, they're not."

Moving assertively, Kim grabbed Amber's wrist, and pulled her toward the ladies' changeroom.

As Amber was dragged along behind the Kardashian heiress, her gaze drowned in those pumping glute muscles, and wobbling thighs, and side-scything ponytail of black hair. It's been much too long.

She was trembling. The heat in her pussy was exploding out of control. She wanted to shag this incredibly hot woman. Wanted to wreck her.

This is some trick, she thought. I can see that, and I'm still falling into it. I'm the world's stupidest fish, swimming toward a metal book. Just look at that huge juicy worm!

* * *

In the bathroom, the kissing resumed, gaining intensity. They gasped heat into each others' mouths as they unleashed their lust on each other.

Their hands were everywhere, stroking handfuls of skin, pulling at each others' voluptuous bodies. The air between them became fragrant, refulgent with hot, eager breath.

Kim unzipped her bustier. Amber unlaced her sports bra. Four oversized breasts fell out pendulously, swinging in the lavender-scented air.

Amber pulled off her booty shorts with both hands, threading them over her sneakers. Kim yanked down her octopus leggings, struggling to get them past her mammoth ass. As they got more and more naked, their stares became more and more sharply-razored with lust. Eyes that were hot and desperate and needy on one side, grave-cold and pellucid on the other. But equally ready for this. Equally ready to descend.

They pressed their hips together, sharing warmth, swiveling their pubic mounds together, grunting and shivering with pleasure. Amber's fingers clenched, digging into Kim's hair. Their huge naked boobs smooshed and collided, nipples grinding together and becoming turgid with arousal. Amber had a lot more tit. Kim had a lot more ass. We're like the letter p and the letter b, Amber thought, giggling. Same shape. Just rotated different.

Kim broke the kiss. She leaped up sinuously onto the countertop where the faucets were mounted, and spread her legs.

"Eat me out, right here."

Amber skip-tapped her fingers from Kim's knees along the thickening curves of her massive thighs, finally scooping up her hips with both hands and using them to pull the older woman's bulk into her face.

"Ooooohh yeah."

Kim began grunting and vocalizing orgiastically as Amber's tongue clove apart her gash. Her heavy fuck-globes heaved and swelled, her midsection tensing. She rolled her hips deliriously, grinding her moist slippery twat against Amber's face. As the younger woman sucked her clit, pleasure tore and twisted into her core in surges and eddies, riding nerve networks and limning each with fire.

Kim had missed this. Brutish, animalistic males like Hector were fine for a pounding, but there was no substitute for a woman's touch. Particularly when the thing being touched was the erogenous zones interwoven beneath her obscenely bulging buttocks.

"Uhh. Ohh..." a whine uncoiled from her lips like steam.

Amber lunged forward, driving into Kim's core. Unrelenting, and unstoppable, she spun out her tongue in terrible arabesques through Kim's pink cuntflesh, writing her name upon the woman's pulsating clit.

Kim's flesh burned and scalded with lust. Sweat beaded on her brow. She slid back, arms sliding across pools of water lying across the formica surface, finally collapsing into a horizontal position. Her braid was flung into a dirty protein-powdered basin by tosses and plunges of Kim's pleasure-stricken face, becoming soaked in water.

She arched her back as a surge pressed upon her.

"I'm about to cum," Kim said, staring at the ceiling as she was orally pleasured.

Amber, a professional, didn't speed up or slow down. She just kept on doing what she was doing, with metronomic precision, until the older woman blew up like an atom bomb.

"AAAAAUUUUUUUUMMMMMPPPPPPHH!" Kim's mouth gaped.

Her thighs tensed and scissored together, nearly tearing Amber's head off with sudden muscular contractions. Amber dug her fingernails in tighter and harder, stabbing them into Kim's abundant asschecks for purchase.

Once the spasms stopped, Kim went on the attack. She lunged forward off the benchtop, wrestling Amber down to the filthy floor of the gym.

SMACK!

Ripping Amber's knees apart, she stabbed and shlicked her tongue into Amber's velvet cunt. A surge wrested Amber's own hips upward.

Kim swung her hips over Amber's face, and they sixty-nined on floor, the cool tiles burning skin when they changed position and posture. Each of them eating and devouring the other, as if seeking to swallow the other whole. They had no proprietry. No shame. No restraint.

Amber wailed and pushed her head into Kim's shoulder. Her hands came alive, running up Kim's sleek skin and into her hair, tugging tangles of black free from the tight ponytail, running the silken locks between her fingers.

She shuddered loudly as Kim splayed open her snatch, gripping her convulsing buttocks and using them to pull her cunt down onto her exploring tongue. Amber smothered the woman's face in her bulky hips, gently thumping her cunt like a glove against the curvature of Kim's flawless features. Kim returned fire from the other end of her body, slobbering Amber's drooling snatch.

Amber shook her bald head, and her stacked body erupted from an overload of pleasure, her tits wobbling and shaking with the bliss of her release.

As Amber spewed in orgasm, Kim gulped her cunt-nectar with gasping, sucking sounds. Soon after, she came too, her lower body melting to so much jelly as she bucked and creamed against Amber's courtesanly lips.

Both women groaned and hissed like swans, their cunts spewing and volleying cum in opposite directions..

"So are you still trying to become a rapper?" Kim lifted her dripping face from Amber's debaucherous depths.

"Yeah. Call me Lil Uzi Squirt."

Kim was so sex-drunk that this actually made her laugh.

* * *

The two insatiable women swiftly recovered, and fucked again.

Then they showered, which quickly devolved into more lesbian action.

They went back to Kim's place, and fucked twice in her living room, then twice more in her bedroom. Kim furiously rammed in and out of Amber's pulsing cunt with a black strap on. The same one that Kourtney had used to take her anal virginity in high school.

"Grow your hair out," Kim hissed, her voluptuous hips swinging, shuttling twelve inches of black plastic in and out of Amber's enormously stretched cunt.

"Why?" Amber moaned, feeling another of the night's endless successions of orgasms gathering like dark lightning.

"So I can yank it while I plough you."

* * *

As dawnlight began to creep over the horizon, Amber readied herself to leave. But Kim snatched her wrist.

"There's something you should know about your fiance. He's probably cheating on you."

Amber froze under her touch. Sophie...

"Cheating? How do you know?"

Kim transferred some files using her iPhone.

"A month or two ago, mom hired an Israeli cointel firm to discover information on our targets. They hacked Alex Vandross's phone, and the backdoor remains active to this day. I've been keeping tabs on his phone calls. Several times a day, he's calling a certain number. It seems to be a woman's number."

"You're lying. I know you, Kim. This is some trick you're playing."

"Just look at it."

Amber resolved not to look at what Kim had sent her. A resolution that broke down five minutes after she returned to her Tarzana mansion.

Alone in an empty house, with Lex still not home, she looked at the phone records. She felt like she was going mad with the things Kim had told her. And the thing Lex had told her, without meaning to.

Sophie...

That name...he'd whispered it while asleep. She couldn't stop hearing it. It haunted her.

She gazed at the list of outgoing calls on her fiance's phone.

1-213-555-1212

1-213-555-1212

1-213-555-1212

1-213-555-1212

1-213-555-1212

1-213-555-1212

Her fiance had made literally seven dozen calls to that number over the last few weeks. She had never seen it before in her life. Bitch, you're paranoid. You know Lex. He's a good man. Don't believe Kim's bullshit.

He wouldn't dare...

She dialed 1-213-555-1212. Needed two tries, because her fingers were shaking.

It rang, then someone picked up.

"Hello?" A woman's voice said sleepily. After a few seconds... "This is Sophie. Can I help?"

Amber hung up.

Her skin felt tight and hot. Everything was falling apart, coming apart, tearing apart inside her. The house she'd built all her hopes and dreams upon...it was sinking into quicksand. Going. Going. Gone.

She heard Bianca's voice.

Men are all the same. One of these days, he's gonna rip your heart out of your chest, and then you'll look in the mirror and see the old Amber Rose staring back. A witch, who commands all of hell.

She flung herself into bed, squeezed a pillow over her head, and began to cry.

* * *

Kanye West soon returned to the spotlight.

He staged his first public appearance in weeks at an impromptu press gala for E! Interview, fielding questions from dozens of journalists. He was reinvigorated, reanimated, more alive than he'd seemed in years.

He wouldn't speak as to his recent wherebouts. Instead, he talked about his future plans. A conceptual sequel to Graduation with live orchestra accompaniment; his own film production studio; an outreach program for at-risk youth; a run for state governor; on and on and on...

There were no rants about Jews. No remarks of the I love Hitler variety. He was witty, charming, inspiring, electrifying. This was the old Kanye, a creative wunderkind at the peak of his artistic powers, someone who could take on the world and probably win.

The man on stage was Kanye West at his Kanye Best.

"Where have you been?" a young cub scout reporter asked, ratherly callowly.

...And for an elusive second, Ye's laser-like stare came unfocused. A dreamlike daze settled across his face. He seemed like a man trying to recall details from a long-ago dream, or from the highest spike of a fever.

"I went away..." Kanye said. "On a very long and strange journey, into a place that I'm not even sure I can describe, because it was for me, and me alone. And what that taught me is that I don't want to be alone like that, ever again. Even if I'm standing on a mountaintop, an experience is hollow unless I can share it with the ones who matter. I went to a place that taught me where I belong: right here, among my fans—my people!—whom I cherish with all the love a heart can hold."

A rousing cheer swept the audience, followed by a thirty-second standing ovation.

* * *

Kanye's return created such a stir that nobody read the obituaries that week.

The death of a security guard named Alex Vandross passed without notice.

THE END


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