Magical Makeover

By Lyka Bloom

Kyra and Titus are outcasts at the Narton School for Witchcraft. The adventurous Kyra wants to investigate the mysterious clock tower, which results in a magical accident granting her great power. Enough power to turn Titus into the girl of Kyra's dreams. But Titus has plans of his own, and his attempts to subvert Kyra's plans may place them both in jeopardy of losing more than their student status at the witch academy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyka Bloom
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005355135

Lyka Bloom

Lyka Bloom writes various forms of fiction, but erotica has become a new passion. She preferstransformations and games of control, and enjoys exploring all the perverse kinks bubbling beneath the surface of sexuality.

Book preview

MAGICAL MAKEOVER

by Lyka Bloom

As

KayDee Sommers

MAGICAL MAKEOVER

First Edition. September 8, 2022 at Smashwords.

Copyright © 2022 Lyka Bloom

You can find more on my Author Page, or at

www.LykaBloom.com

When you write as much as I do, sometimes you want to branch out, to try some different things, and generally see if you can do something you haven't done in the past. Or, you want to do something that doesn't quite fit in the rest of the body of work. And so, KayDee Sommers was born.

I've written a number of stories under that name, and it's time for them to come home and live alongside the rest of my stories. If you've never read KayDee's stories, now's your chance. If you have, these will be edited versions of the stories you read before.

I hope you enjoy them. I know I enjoyed their creation, and I am very pleased to present them to you as part of my library of writing. Happy reading!

And if you want more of of these adventures at the Narton School of Magic, drop me a line at [e-mail]!

Chapter One – The Clock Tower

Kyra was on her back, looking out the window of her bedroom and casually levitating the candelabra with one hand. After more than two months of practice and study, she could almost keep the pewter fixture floating without thinking about it.

"A good witch makes it look easy because it is easy," Miss Hornlink repeated for the thousandth time.

Outside, the moon was up, and the early fall chill was creeping into the air. Below, the sound of dry leaves skittering along the stone pathways that led around the Narton Academy of Spellcasting rose up like skeletal fingers snapping. Curfew had passed, and so the world outside was silent, save for the maniacally steady ticking of the school's clock, which somehow traveled through the stone itself. Kyra knew she wasn't the only one who felt haunted by the tick-tock of the giant clock set into Narton's highest tower, where Grandmistress Harwell resided. Kyra's best friend, a warlock named Titus, mentioned it to her once when they were sitting on the rails of the bridge that led from the mortal world to Narton.

She'd been in her lazy outfit, a plain gray sweatshirt and a black skirt with the black-and-white striped leggings that, she thought, made her appear like a real witch. Her headband pushed back her shoulder-length hair, bright pink that day after an easy transmutation spell. Her legs swung over the emptiness that swirled beneath the bridge, a miasma of dark clouds that were occasionally lit by blue and yellow bolts of lightning. The rumors were these occasional flashes of color were made by witches and warlocks who had fallen (or been cast into) the bottomless void and cast spells to try to free themselves. The thought made Kyra shudder.

Titus leaned against the railings beside her, content to keep his feet on the bridge and occasionally poke his head through the far side, peering into the mortal world they had once called home before being visited by Grandmistress Harwell and brought to Narton.

I heard the clock counts down your breaths, Titus said, not looking at Kyra, but certainly speaking in her direction.

That's stupid, she replied, bending to spit between her legs into the chasm below. She imagined her spittle tumbling end over end forever, or maybe striking the forehead of some poor soul claimed by the emptiness. Insult to injury, she imagined. Not everybody breathes once a second. Would it stop if you held your breath?

Why don't you try and see, he said, his voice maddeningly rational. But that was Titus all over. All brains, no heart. She liked that about him most of the time, but when she was