A witch best friend
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 9
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Astrid stood before the vast mirror in her penthouse, the shattered remnants of the black vase scattered like dark confetti at her feet. The electric aftertaste of her lightning spell still tingled along her elongated black nails, and the realization had finally crystallized in her razor-sharp mind: this was no dream, no hallucination, no drunken fever. This was power—real, cosmic, hers.
She flexed her towering, bronzed body deliberately, muscles rippling beneath the glossy black substance that clung to her like living armor. Her rock-hard breasts rose and fell as she ran her hands shamelessly over every curve and contour: tracing the deep cuts of her abs through the window in her suit, cupping the impossibly firm swell of her enhanced breasts, sliding down the powerful thighs that could crush steel. A low, throaty moan escaped her plump black lips as pleasure surged through her—pure, narcissistic ecstasy. She pinched a bicep, watching the muscle peak like carved obsidian, then released it with a satisfied sigh.
“So good to be a witch,” she purred, voice dripping wicked sensuality and smug wit. “Double, double toil and trouble—except the only trouble is how deliciously superior I feel. Mirror, mirror on the wall… who’s the fairest now, bitches?”
The abstract female head in the mirror beamed with unrestrained delight, its smug features practically glowing. “Oh, Daughter of the Moon, Your Supreme Highness—your beauty is a weapon, your sexiness a cataclysm. Mortals will weep at the sight of you. You are perfection incarnate, a goddess sculpted from starlight and venom.”
Astrid turned slowly, admiring her reflection from every angle. The opera glove gleamed on her right arm, the black glass stilettos clicked with each step, the witch hat sat at its perfect, playful tilt. She looked like a sexy, muscular sorceress straight out of forbidden legend—and she adored it.
Then her sparkling blue eyes narrowed playfully. “Only one thing missing to complete the cliché,” she murmured. “A broom. Every proper witch needs her broom.”
With predatory grace she strode to the walk-in closet, gripped the heavy handle—and yanked.
The entire door tore free from its hinges with a metallic screech, screws popping like champagne corks. Astrid froze for half a second, then burst into wicked, throaty laughter, holding the detached door aloft like a trophy.
“Oh my,” she drawled, smugness and sensuality blending in her aristocratic tone, “I really am strong now, aren’t I? Careful, darling—I might accidentally bench-press the entire building.”
The mirror-head’s voice floated after her, mildly chiding yet indulgent. “A gentle reminder, Your Eternal Grace: superhuman strength requires superhuman restraint. At least until you’ve practiced.”
Astrid tossed the ruined door aside with casual disdain and rummaged through the closet until her fingers closed around the handle of an old, dusty broom—long forgotten, its bristles worn. She carried it back to the mirror like a scepter, planted her feet wide, and gazed down at the floating head with lordly condescension.
“Very well, my devoted little handmaiden,” she said, voice silky and commanding. “Explain to your queen how a proper witch flies on a broom. After all, it would be positively embarrassing if I didn’t master the classics.”
The head inclined slightly, its smirk widening. “Of course, Mistress of the Firmament. It is not mere physical flight, but an extension of will. Project a portion of your cosmic essence into the broom—treat it as an appendage of your body, alive and obedient. Then speak the incantation.”
Astrid lifted the broom horizontally before her, palms open. She concentrated, feeling the green electric hum deep in her core rise like a tide. The mirror-head intoned slowly:
“‘Per caelum et umbras, per vim aeternam meam, ascende, vectorem meum, et porta me ad astra!’”
Astrid repeated the Latin with flawless pronunciation, her voice resonant and commanding. A crackling ribbon of green electricity leaped from her palms, spiraling around the broomstick like living vines. When the glow faded, she released her grip.
The broom hovered motionless in mid-air, level with her hips, quivering faintly as though eager.
Astrid’s black lips parted in genuine amazement. “Well… hello there.”
The mirror encouraged softly. “Mount, Your Radiant Sovereign. It will obey.”
With deliberate elegance she swung one powerful leg over the shaft, settling sideways in classic sidesaddle fashion—back straight, chin high, one hand resting lightly on the wood. The moment her weight settled, the broom rose smoothly, lifting her a foot, then two, then five above the floor.
Astrid smiled—slow, confident, predatory.
She thought forward.
The broom glided silently across the room.
She giggled—a rare, girlish sound that escaped before she could suppress it—then squealed with pure, delighted excitement. “I can fly anywhere now… for free!”
The thought barely formed—up, out, sky—and the broom obeyed with sudden, eager velocity.
It shot toward the open balcony doors, hurtled into the cold night air above Havenridge, and soared upward.
Astrid screamed—terror, not joy—clinging to the shaft with iron strength as the city lights shrank beneath her. The wind roared, whipping her long platinum hair, caressing her bronzed, muscular body through the thin black covering. She flew higher, piercing low clouds, the cold biting deliciously against her enhanced skin.
“Stop!” she finally shouted, voice cracking with panic.
The broom froze instantly, hovering motionless among the stars.
Astrid panted, heart hammering, staring down through a gap in the clouds at the glittering coastline far below. She was high—impossibly high.
Then a small, familiar voice called her name.
She looked down. A tiny pocket mirror—silver, antique—had somehow adhered to the glossy surface of her suit, right over her left breast. She pried it open with trembling black nails.
The abstract head gazed up at her, calm and smug. “Fear not, Daughter of the Moon. You cannot fall from your broom unless you will it. It is bound to your essence. You are its mistress, not its passenger.”
Astrid swallowed, then exhaled slowly. Confidence returned like a tide. She tested the broom—left, right, up, down. It responded instantly to thought alone.
Within minutes she was streaking through the night sky, banking sharply, spiraling upward in tight corkscrews, laughing wildly as she mastered loop after loop. The cold wind felt alive against her powerful frame; the stars seemed close enough to touch.
Finally, exhilarated and breathless, she guided the broom downward in a long, graceful arc. She chose a flat rooftop on a high-rise downtown—private, empty, overlooking the glittering bay.
Her black-glass stilettos touched down with a soft click. She dismounted, broom floating obediently at her side like a loyal hound.
Astrid stood at the edge, gripping the broom in one hand, and looked down at the city pulsing below.
What does Astrid see below?
1. A raucous costume party spilling out of a trendy nightclub. Neon lights, thumping bass, dozens of people in elaborate outfits—vampires, devils, queens, superheroes—dancing on the street-level terrace. The perfect hunting ground for a newly empowered witch to test her charms, her strength, her spells.
2. A luxurious, high-end nightclub down the street. Velvet ropes, limousines idling, elegantly dressed patrons stepping from sports cars. Champagne flows inside, private booths, celebrity whispers. A glittering cage of wealth and power—exactly the kind of place where Astrid’s greed and ambition could find fresh prey.
She flexed her towering, bronzed body deliberately, muscles rippling beneath the glossy black substance that clung to her like living armor. Her rock-hard breasts rose and fell as she ran her hands shamelessly over every curve and contour: tracing the deep cuts of her abs through the window in her suit, cupping the impossibly firm swell of her enhanced breasts, sliding down the powerful thighs that could crush steel. A low, throaty moan escaped her plump black lips as pleasure surged through her—pure, narcissistic ecstasy. She pinched a bicep, watching the muscle peak like carved obsidian, then released it with a satisfied sigh.
“So good to be a witch,” she purred, voice dripping wicked sensuality and smug wit. “Double, double toil and trouble—except the only trouble is how deliciously superior I feel. Mirror, mirror on the wall… who’s the fairest now, bitches?”
The abstract female head in the mirror beamed with unrestrained delight, its smug features practically glowing. “Oh, Daughter of the Moon, Your Supreme Highness—your beauty is a weapon, your sexiness a cataclysm. Mortals will weep at the sight of you. You are perfection incarnate, a goddess sculpted from starlight and venom.”
Astrid turned slowly, admiring her reflection from every angle. The opera glove gleamed on her right arm, the black glass stilettos clicked with each step, the witch hat sat at its perfect, playful tilt. She looked like a sexy, muscular sorceress straight out of forbidden legend—and she adored it.
Then her sparkling blue eyes narrowed playfully. “Only one thing missing to complete the cliché,” she murmured. “A broom. Every proper witch needs her broom.”
With predatory grace she strode to the walk-in closet, gripped the heavy handle—and yanked.
The entire door tore free from its hinges with a metallic screech, screws popping like champagne corks. Astrid froze for half a second, then burst into wicked, throaty laughter, holding the detached door aloft like a trophy.
“Oh my,” she drawled, smugness and sensuality blending in her aristocratic tone, “I really am strong now, aren’t I? Careful, darling—I might accidentally bench-press the entire building.”
The mirror-head’s voice floated after her, mildly chiding yet indulgent. “A gentle reminder, Your Eternal Grace: superhuman strength requires superhuman restraint. At least until you’ve practiced.”
Astrid tossed the ruined door aside with casual disdain and rummaged through the closet until her fingers closed around the handle of an old, dusty broom—long forgotten, its bristles worn. She carried it back to the mirror like a scepter, planted her feet wide, and gazed down at the floating head with lordly condescension.
“Very well, my devoted little handmaiden,” she said, voice silky and commanding. “Explain to your queen how a proper witch flies on a broom. After all, it would be positively embarrassing if I didn’t master the classics.”
The head inclined slightly, its smirk widening. “Of course, Mistress of the Firmament. It is not mere physical flight, but an extension of will. Project a portion of your cosmic essence into the broom—treat it as an appendage of your body, alive and obedient. Then speak the incantation.”
Astrid lifted the broom horizontally before her, palms open. She concentrated, feeling the green electric hum deep in her core rise like a tide. The mirror-head intoned slowly:
“‘Per caelum et umbras, per vim aeternam meam, ascende, vectorem meum, et porta me ad astra!’”
Astrid repeated the Latin with flawless pronunciation, her voice resonant and commanding. A crackling ribbon of green electricity leaped from her palms, spiraling around the broomstick like living vines. When the glow faded, she released her grip.
The broom hovered motionless in mid-air, level with her hips, quivering faintly as though eager.
Astrid’s black lips parted in genuine amazement. “Well… hello there.”
The mirror encouraged softly. “Mount, Your Radiant Sovereign. It will obey.”
With deliberate elegance she swung one powerful leg over the shaft, settling sideways in classic sidesaddle fashion—back straight, chin high, one hand resting lightly on the wood. The moment her weight settled, the broom rose smoothly, lifting her a foot, then two, then five above the floor.
Astrid smiled—slow, confident, predatory.
She thought forward.
The broom glided silently across the room.
She giggled—a rare, girlish sound that escaped before she could suppress it—then squealed with pure, delighted excitement. “I can fly anywhere now… for free!”
The thought barely formed—up, out, sky—and the broom obeyed with sudden, eager velocity.
It shot toward the open balcony doors, hurtled into the cold night air above Havenridge, and soared upward.
Astrid screamed—terror, not joy—clinging to the shaft with iron strength as the city lights shrank beneath her. The wind roared, whipping her long platinum hair, caressing her bronzed, muscular body through the thin black covering. She flew higher, piercing low clouds, the cold biting deliciously against her enhanced skin.
“Stop!” she finally shouted, voice cracking with panic.
The broom froze instantly, hovering motionless among the stars.
Astrid panted, heart hammering, staring down through a gap in the clouds at the glittering coastline far below. She was high—impossibly high.
Then a small, familiar voice called her name.
She looked down. A tiny pocket mirror—silver, antique—had somehow adhered to the glossy surface of her suit, right over her left breast. She pried it open with trembling black nails.
The abstract head gazed up at her, calm and smug. “Fear not, Daughter of the Moon. You cannot fall from your broom unless you will it. It is bound to your essence. You are its mistress, not its passenger.”
Astrid swallowed, then exhaled slowly. Confidence returned like a tide. She tested the broom—left, right, up, down. It responded instantly to thought alone.
Within minutes she was streaking through the night sky, banking sharply, spiraling upward in tight corkscrews, laughing wildly as she mastered loop after loop. The cold wind felt alive against her powerful frame; the stars seemed close enough to touch.
Finally, exhilarated and breathless, she guided the broom downward in a long, graceful arc. She chose a flat rooftop on a high-rise downtown—private, empty, overlooking the glittering bay.
Her black-glass stilettos touched down with a soft click. She dismounted, broom floating obediently at her side like a loyal hound.
Astrid stood at the edge, gripping the broom in one hand, and looked down at the city pulsing below.
What does Astrid see below?
1. A raucous costume party spilling out of a trendy nightclub. Neon lights, thumping bass, dozens of people in elaborate outfits—vampires, devils, queens, superheroes—dancing on the street-level terrace. The perfect hunting ground for a newly empowered witch to test her charms, her strength, her spells.
2. A luxurious, high-end nightclub down the street. Velvet ropes, limousines idling, elegantly dressed patrons stepping from sports cars. Champagne flows inside, private booths, celebrity whispers. A glittering cage of wealth and power—exactly the kind of place where Astrid’s greed and ambition could find fresh prey.
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June 13
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