Chapter 58: Chanel Certificate
“Hola,” the middle-aged man nervously greeted me, standing on Kaitlyn and Davie’s front doorstep.
My gurus left me alone in their house, knowing full well what I intended to do here today.
I studied the birthday boy before me. What’d Kaitlyn said, fifty-two? Salt-and-pepper hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, conservative haircut… A darker cast to his skin than his daughter’s, too.
“Hello, Sr. Gutierrez,” I greeted the man. “Please, do come in. May I call you Ramón, sir?”
“Ah sí, claro.”
“Good,” I replied, remembering just enough high school Spanish to catch his meaning. “I do believe we’re going to be very much on a first-name basis soon.” I’d seen the little paper certificate he had in his hand, the one he’d been about to offer me, but I waved his rising hand down, saying, “Yes, Ramón, I do know why you’re here. They asked me first.”
I led him into the living room where I had his favorite drink ready, poured just as he drove up. I guided him to the easy chair set at a ninety degree angle off the short end of the coffee table while I reclined on the Victorian fainting couch that was the room’s centerpiece. I waved a hand palm upward at the offered refreshment, announcing, “Red creme soda. Your favorite, I believe?”
I picked up my teacup of hot Darjeeling, the blend Davie kept in the kitchen as a reminder of his birth country. I just sipped at it, waiting for my guest to speak.
The glass tumbler tinkled as the ice cubes rattled from his jittery hold, he sipping nervously at it while taking in my Asian-patterned silk robe, its knot purposefully beginning to slip, giving him tantalizing glimpses of the matching coral pink lacy underwear I had on underneath. He was interested but not responding, so I played adroitly with the sash between sips of tea, acting like I was readjusting it to avoid another underwear flash, while in fact I was loosening the robe to ensure more and deeper flashes. The sides of the robe now gaped from collarbone to the tip of my breastbone.
Ramón’s eyes locked on my perfect cleavage. Modern female structural support garments can do miraculous things, but I’d started with a perfect–10 body.
I let him look. That was in fact rather the point of our afternoon appointment. I was still far too clothed to sense his state of arousal, and his clothes would have blocked me anyway, but I had years of pre-mage experience judging this sort of thing: the man still wasn’t stiffening up. I had my work cut out for me!
I took a last sip of my tea and set the cup slowly down on the table, allowing him to see so far down my robe that he probably knew just how high-cut my matching panties were, an early preview of later events. From his reaction to this display, I judged that lack of interest in the opposite sex was not his problem. We had a physiological problem here, not a psychological one.
I rocked forward onto my feet, sidestepped once, and rotated myself ninety degrees in a practiced maneuver that brought my curvy flank into his view, then slowly sat on the easy chair’s arm, looming over him, masterfully crowding his persona space. “Did you have a nice birthday lunch, Ramón?” I asked him as I leaned down low to slide a hand up the inside of his thigh.
“Ah, yes, Miss. Um, Mizz… Um…”
“Just call me Chanel, sir.”
I’d made a few trips up and down his thigh and ended with my hand riding the crease in his pants bordering the area I’d taken to calling the “root chakra” when I was around Davie, just to annoy him once I learned he had zero tolerance for woo-woo, not excluding the sort his birth country exported.
My amused thoughts failed to cheer me up, because Ramón still didn’t respond to my skillful stroking! Holy cats, a girl could be insulted!
I pushed that thought down, not wanting my annoyance to thin my lips, important working tools that they were: I needed them to stay pouty. I’d gone with cherry lip-gloss on Mama Mary’s advice, a call back to a fashion fad popular in Ramón’s youth, which still got him going.
Or had; grrr!
Damn it, lock it down, girl!
I was caressing up his front, so I went down his arm, took his nearest hand in one of mine, and lifted it to my breast. “Take what you want, Ramón. I am your birthday gift, after all.” He didn’t look convinced, so I added, “Mary gave me to you. You wouldn’t want to spurn her gift, now would you?”
He nodded his head side to side in a weighing sort of way, then began tickling his fingertips gingerly down my cleavage, jumped the narrow band joining the cups, and pushed down to my belly, burying his hand in my silk gown.
I undid the knot as I leaned in for a kiss, hovering just out of his range as a tease, making him chase my lips until he connected, then stilled, acting the caught little bunny rabbit before his hungry jaws.
He began to devour me, and I let him.
His exploring hand continued downward, and with the resisting sash undone, he found his progress unimpeded, his fingertips rubbing over my tanga’s waistband rather than go exploring underneath. I groaned into his mouth as he caressed over my button before deepening my panties’ camel-toe.
I kissed him more deeply as a reward, my hand also exploring, checking back in on Mr. Happy…who was still not very happy! What does it take to get this guy hard?
I broke contact with him, standing and limboing between the couch and coffee table, backing down the hallway toward my rented bedroom, beckoning him to follow. As he did, I let the robe fall near-silently off my shoulders into a pool in the hallway as I swayed backwards away from his slow pursuit.
Two more steps and I was framed in my bedroom doorway, where I unclasped my bra, but I wrapped my arms around myself to hold the loosened garment to my body.
And still no tent in his pants yet. Grrr and double-grrr!
I’d lived in this house long enough to know where the bed was within the room, so I jumped blindly back onto it, sending my B-cups into jubbly motion, no longer under the discarded bra’s influence. I pulled myself up into a practiced pose, knowing how the room’s artfully arranged lighting would fall across my lingerie-clad body. I proceeded to create a mid–1980s style Playboy pictorial for him, knowing this to be his concept of the magazine’s pinnacle.
Once I’d teasingly slipped off my panties, I beckoned him onto the bed, rising to meet him, kneeling before him, carefully undressing him, swaying and rolling my hips and shoulders as I worked.
I didn’t have to think through these moves. I’d practiced them for years in a semi-professional setting on a thousand different beds. My skills were polished to perfection. The last time a non-mage taught me anything new in bed was probably a year before Kaitlyn and Davie got me out of the life. Sex magic was a revelation, but Ramón was no mage.
I’m not being arrogant here, trying to impress you with my expertise. I’m telling you all this because the man…still…wasn’t…HARD! Hell’s bells and cockle shells!
I got him undressed but for his socks, which I told him to keep. I thought that made men look even more naked for some reason.
I beckoned him up onto the bed and lay him down to fellate his flaccid fellow. I worked more for sensation than speed, and he groaned appreciatively. He finally started to stiffen up, but it was slow and difficult work. When I broke off as an experiment to kiss over his belly and chest, I lost half my hard-fought ground and had to go back and re-take my prior advances.
Ramón spoke for the first time since the drinks in the living room, in a tone like a man in a confessional, “I couldn’t get it up for Mother’s Day, for mi bonita Maria…”
I kissed back the brimming tears of shame in his eyes, promising him gently, “Stow that noise. I will fix it.”
I confess to a certain weakness of character at this point: I was purposefully avoiding using magic.
Why? Because when Kaitlyn said she thought I could get her father hard without resorting to magic, I resolved to live up to her expectations.
It was 100% pride, but of a mixed grade.
The lesser part of it was for my skills earned with years of practice on campus: I was good in bed, and I damned well knew it. I should be able to get Ramón hard on that basis alone.
Yet there was more to it: I was beginning to take this Sex Priestess of Gaia thing seriously. I’d been agnostic about religion from about sixteen onward, but this Gaia stuff… I mean, how do you not believe in a higher power after wielding that power directly?
I suppose I did buy Davie’s argument that magic was natural, therefore not literally supernatural, but I thought the distinction began to fall apart when they showed me how to wield the power of a planet. I couldn’t treat that sort of thing as a joke, but it also wasn’t a notion I could reject as simply incorrect. I really was a servant of Gaia, and sex was my prime magical affinity. In the days after they bestowed that joke of a title, I resolved to take it for myself and make it real, but to do that, I had to fill the role properly!
I imagined a day not far in the future where I’d hold temple services, but instead of genuflections and ring-kissing, I would solemnly stride sky-clad down the aisle from narthex to apse eliciting schwings on the left and glistening lady lips on the right. That’s how you perform your obeisances for Gaia’s Sex Priestess, dammit!
In that light, the lack of reaction from Sr. Gutierrez could be construed as impious!
Rather than call down the power of my goddess upon him in a fit of clerical pique, I humbly resumed my ministry. I decided that his infirmity is one of the major reasons Gaia had a Sex Priestess to begin with, my duty to fix it.
I kept him hard orally for a solid minute before I finally mounted him, sliding smoothly down onto his pole, control over my vaginal lubrication and diameter being one of the first sex magic skills my gurus had taught me. I tightened myself up for maximum stimulation given his girth and got to work.
“Oh, Chanel, you make me feel…”
“Good?” I prompted?
He thrashed his head side to side as he pawed my breasts. “Guilty!” he cried into the pillow.
“Don’t be. Mary sent you to me for this very purpose.”
He shook his head again, hands now down around my hips, caressing around and back up my belly. “Guilty for feeling so good, for being able to do this with you when…”
I leaned forward and stopped his mouth while continuing to ride him in low cowgirl, frenching him until he forgot what words were.
I knew what his problem was now: he wanted to do this with Mary, first and foremost. He wanted me sexually, but Mary was his wife! I promised over his deepening pants and groans, “Ramón, when I’m done with you, you will be able to do this with Mary! You know who I am and what I am. This is my vow to you, Sr. Gutierrez!”
I couldn’t tell what was going on in Ramón’s head through magical means, but I didn’t really need that. Learning to read men in bed was a skill I’d picked up years before I became a mage. I veritably saw the psychological block dissolve before me. He grew another half inch inside me and started pounding me hard and long, controlling the pace and depth with his hands on my hips.
I collapsed down onto his chest and rolled to the side, turning cowgirl into missionary in a graceful move that might’ve looked practiced to an outsider.
Ramón didn’t miss a stroke.
Indeed, he was so close to the edge, he could not have missed any more strokes short of a boot to the balls.
“Aiiiyyyyeeeee, Chanel! ¡’Stoy casi allí!” he called, his father’s accents pushing the Southern Utahan farmer drawl aside.
My high school Spanish almost failed me, but I guessed that translated as, “I’m almost there!” so I threw off all of the controls I’d been keeping on my own arousal, using my magic for the first time to monitor his progress and saw that he was just a few strokes from completion! I threw all my skill behind my own orgasm and…
“Greeeeeeeyyyyyyaaaaaahhhh!” Ramón cried as my own pulsations began around his stilled cock.
I just shuddered, not vocalizing at all, for my attention was fully focused on the magic, directing it down at his tightened, clenching scrotum.
I diagnosed his problem on the sly last week in the Gutierrez’ relaxation pool. The three of us mages down at their farm under the pretext of a weekend skinny-dipping barbecue. While Kaitlyn and Davie got Mary alone to arrange today’s Chanel Certificate, leaving Ramón and I together in the pool, I made a careful magico-medical study of his agèd floppy bits. I compared it magically to Davie’s and Miguel’s afterward, then took what I learned home to work out this afternoon’s plan.
After some research, I decided he had a form of late-onset hypogonadism, the most common cause of impotence in a man his age. His tissues were atrophying, for lack of a better word. Whereas the medical treatment for this is hormone replacement therapy, I went after the cause, dumping nonspecific healing magic into the affected area, the image of textbook-perfect testes held firmly in my mind, guiding his body back to an ideal state by will and magic.
Ramón’s orgasm, while enthusiastic, was much weaker than I was used to eliciting from the college crowd I’d been working up ’til now. They say older men are better lovers, being patient and skilled and all, but Ramón was seriously handicapped; he hadn’t lifted me very high at all, so the burst of magic was a paltry sort of fizzle compared to what I’d learned to expect from the rare explosive tutorials Kaitlyn and Davie deigned to offer me via rapport link. Still, I could see that my work was somewhat effective already: his nards — that’s a technical term for goolies, dear reader, take my professional word for it — were looking decidedly more healthy.
He collapsed upon me in his completion, far too deep in bliss from long-delayed release to concern himself with my comfort. I wasn’t overly bothered, deciding that supporting one’s flock is one of the lesser duties of a Sex Priestess of Gaia.
And here you were all jealous of me! Didn’t think it all the way through, did you? ?
Considerate man that he is, Ramón soon realized the indignity he’d forced upon me, mumbling “¡Lo siento!” as he rolled off me, separating with a wet plop.
I climbed atop him not so much to avoid another of my unpleasant pastoral duties — coping with the wet spot — but to reestablish close body contact, needing it to work efficiently in proximity to so much techie stuff. As much of a newbie as I was, even the nightstand alarm clock was a serious risk to my magical reserves, worth taking into account.
Under cover of soft kisses, I managed to do some lesser healing on him, erasing all of the stresses of our coupling, stoking his stamina regeneration. Working like this in bed while not having sex meant all of the power came from my internal reserves with no option for renewal, so I picked my targets carefully, healing the faculties we’d most need over the coming hour or so.
Ramón was rousing by the time I tapped myself out of magic, so with the first session’s healing now fully upon him, his member rose to salute Gaia’s Priestess without nearly as much work on my part. Most gratifying! I decided I would not have my goddess zot him for impiety after all.
Once I judged the moment was right, I climbed atop him in reverse cowgirl and began giving him a full-contact lap dance, building him slowly towards his second orgasm in months.
Half an hour later, we’d gone through three more sex positions and as many orgasms, Ramón now pounding me deep from behind in a butt-up face-down variant on doggy, yelling, “Almost there! Almost…!”
With each thrust, my breasts squashed out on the bedspread, my arms out to the side grasping handfuls of material to keep myself in place against his vigorous hammering on my Gates of Venus.
I’d done a much better job building my orgasm along with his, having used magic the whole way, so that when he released…
“Aaaaaaiiiiiiiiiyyyyyyyeeeeeaaaaaaaiiiiigggghh!” he screamed, shuddering in an arc tangent to my butt, toes pointed, eyes tightly shut.
I collected our combined magic, his release and mine, and threw it in a blazing mystical comet at his berries, they absorbing so much magic they actually grew in size even as he emptied himself inside me!
I had no idea how big he’d been when young, but what I’d achieved today was at least very healthy, maybe even an improvement over the full vigor of his youth.
Breaking the postcoital silence some minutes later after inspecting my work, I announced, “Ramón, it is done. Let’s go have a shower; then you can go home and show Mary.”
“I’m cured?” he whispered back, still sounding a smidge out of breath.
“Put it this way, Sr. Gutierrez: if I don’t hear that you’ve thoroughly plowed Mary’s field tonight, I’m going to be very upset with you! This is a Priestess of Gaia speaking to you now. Do not tempt my wroth!” I punctuated that with a playful smack on the top of his head.
I worried that I’d overdone that speech, as deeply Catholic as the man was, but he just laughed, then rose upright onto his knees, his hands straight up in praise and said, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this boon, my most effulgent Priestess!” Then he actually bowed into a deep obeisance, literally kowtowing at me! He was smiling mischievously before burying his face in the mussed bedclothes, but I sensed a seriousness underlying this joking display, his humor deflecting deep-felt emotion.
I told him, “Oh, stop that, Ramón! You want to show your appreciation, get hard before the end of the shower, all right?”
I commanded him to take it home to Mary.
Later that night, I was laying out in the sandy massage area behind the house in my skin, watching the dark starry sky while practicing magical midge management, sweeping the vile wee bloodsuckers back down to the river each time they wandered far enough up-slope to encircle the house. It offended Kaitlyn’s ecological sensibilities when I simply evaporated the worthless little beasties, so as long as I was living in her house, I’d take care of them her way.
As though thinking of my landlady summoned her, Kaitlyn walked out past the patio table’s citronella candle, the one we light when we have muggles over to avoid awkward questions like, “Why aintchoo got no ’skeetos so near the river?”
Now you know the real answer, dear reader.
Through Gaia, I sent, «Wearing your favorite dress, I see.»
Kaitlyn, bare as I was, replied, «Whenever possible. Am I intruding?»
«Nah; I was thinking about my afternoon with your father.»
«Oh,» Kaitlyn sent, «that’s actually what I came out here to talk to you about: my mom just called and said dad boned her cross-eyed. Her words!»
«Awww, that’s so nice to hear!» I sent back.
«Mind, she’s never talked to me much about their sex life, but tonight, I almost had to be rude to get her to shut up about it! The word’s ebullient, Chanel.»
«Warms a strumpet’s chill heart, it does!» I replied.
Kaitlyn chided, «I wish you wouldn’t do that.»
«Sorry. Dark humor.»
My guru sent, «If your activities this afternoon don’t tell you that you’re on a rock-solid moral path now, I don’t know what’ll do it. You did a genuinely good thing, Chanel. Not just the healing, but also the resulting increase in joy for my parents, which in turn increased the net amount of joy in the world by a skosh. You moved the needle this afternoon, Chanel. You have major-grade markers to call in for this.»
Kaitlyn followed that heartwarming speech up with a chaste sort of mage-kiss that almost broke my self-control. I wanted to return a mage-egg buzz. Hell, I wanted to jump her bones, tackle her to the sand and make her screech in ecstasy! But no, Kaitlyn and Davie were right: while I was their live-in shishya, we had to maintain a certain social distance.
Instead I sent, «You’re the one with the markers, Kate. I’m happy, healthy, legally employed, and a mage besides. How can I not pass on Gaia’s blessings?»
She gave me a mage-hug, then sent, «Good night, Chanel,» and walked back inside.
Kaitlyn’s right: it had been a good day’s work.