WARNING: The following story is fetish smut, made for perverts who enjoy natural body magic/detachment/disassembling people non-lethally. If you are not a member of that community, I strongly advise that you turn back now. Things will get freaky.

This story is a sequel to Latter Half of the Night, and while reading that story is not required to understand this one, doing so will probably improve your enjoyment of this piece.

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“Look, I know you're dying to say it, so just get it out of your system.” Carrie said, folding her arms and frowning as she awaited the most obvious joke in the world.

“Your purse is tacky and doesn’t match your shirt.” Rohan heaved with the passion of a drowning man gasping for air as he broke the surface.

Carrie nearly fell over laughing as she glanced at the cheap, plastic, fluorescent yellow purse she’d gotten free at a pyramid scheme pitch meeting. “Let the record show that circumstance compelled me to wear this hideous thing. It’s my only purse that wouldn’t drag along the ground.”

“Oh yeah, you’re shorter than I remember.” Rohan said, taking a step back and observing the approximately 2 remaining feet of his friend. The 2 remaining feet of height, that is, for she had exactly 0 feet, ankles, legs, hips, belly... anything below the rib cage, really.

“There it is! Now that we’re back on script: I feel the same way whenever I see you!” She said, jabbing her 5’6” friend in the knee with a gardening-gloved finger as he laughed in kind. “So, you want the exposition now, or over dinner?”

Rohan looked at the chunky, black, laughably dated calculator-watch strapped to his wrist. “We’ll be a few minutes late no matter what, and I’m dying to hear what happened. Think you can tell me on the way?”

“Sure.” Carrie said. Rohan was bending over to pick her up when Carrie put both hands on the ground and effortlessly lifted her abbreviated body, the knot she'd tied her shirt in to conceal her stump swaying beneath her as she hand walked down the street. When Rohan remembered his legs, he jogged to catch up and soon was walking side by side only a bit slower than normal. “So, you know how there’s like 10,000 people who can do magic in the entire world? One of them is my new roommate, a witch named Syrennia the One and Only.”

“Magic can’t buy her a nice cottage in the woods? Somewhere more thematic to plot her revenge on Hansel and Gretel?” Rohan skeptically asked.

“I’d laugh, but I’m not sure if that’s offensive.” Carrie said, cracking a wide smile. “She says there’re lots of laws about what you’re allowed to do with magic, and if you break them the magic police send you to magic jail for infinity eternities. Apparently a bunch of laws concern the creation of wealth, since they don’t want magic users destroying the economy for us normies.”

“Makes sense.” Rohan said, lost between sincerity and sarcasm. “So, that’s the how. Now tell me why your magic pauper roommate halved you.”

“I lost a bet.” Carrie said.

“Which was?” Rohan asked, feeling it was already implied.

“Uh, it's a bit... risque, for public discussion.” She said, eyes scanning the street and cheeks glowing with scandal. “But I wagered that, if she won, she’d get to keep my lower half for the weekend. And she won.”

Rohan’s stunned expression made it clear that he had about a hundred questions, but the one he asked first was “So, you and her…?”

“It’s nothing serious. She’s not into monogamous relationships, and while it's only been a week, I'm pretty sure I don’t want anything deep with her either. Yeah, there are..” She stopped, balancing on one arm as the other rose up and spun its wrist in circles. “…perks, to bedroom magic. But like, romantically, she’s not my type. It’s strictly roommates with benefits. So…”

She tried to read him through the subtle twitches that slipped through his poker face. Neither he nor Carrie had officially declared this dinner a date, though both knew it was. They’d been friends since high school, and had dined together platonically countless times, thrice at tonight's restaurant, but this time was different. There was no reasom, at least none they could quantify, but they knew it was and knew the other knew. Knowing it was different, even if implicitly, made Carrie’s choice to fuck around with her roommate questionable. Then again, she had a hard time regretting her nights with the witch. Even when she lost half of her body, it was a great fucking time.

Not sure how he felt, Rohan filed the question away for later examination and moved on to an observation. “You’re quite comfortable moving on your hands for someone only halved yesterday.”

“Yeah, I’m not even going to try taking credit for that. Syrennia the One and Only did a bunch of magic to help my locomotion. Feel my arm.” She said, stopping and offering Rohan a bicep.

Leaning down, Rohan wrapped his thick, calloused fingers around Carrie’s slender arm and squeezed. Carrie was a vegetarian botanist whose only consistent exercise was gardening. Rohan was a stuntman specializing in mixed martial arts fight scenes, parkour, performing on moving platforms, and driving cars or trucks. She should’ve been crying uncle as soon as he put the squeeze on. Yet try as he might, Rohan couldn’t even put a dent in her flesh. “By God, you’re like marble!”

“I know, right? Apparently hand walking is super exhausting and takes months of practice and upper body exercises. Since we didn’t have months between last night and tonight, and Syrennia the One and Only’s not a total bitch, she used some magic to roid up my arms and shoulders and modified my motor skills to make hand walking feel as natural as regular walking.” Carrie explained.

“Do you have to say all of that every time?” Rohan asked, releasing Carrie’s arm and standing back up to his full below-average height.

“Syrennia the One and Only? Yes. She insists. Says Syrennia makes her sound like ‘some nerd’s RPG character’. Hates people shortening i-AHAHA!” Carrie answered, dropping like sack of potatoes as her arms buckled and collapsed beneath her. “B-bi-ii-hi-hitch!” Carrie cursed, giggling uncontrollably.

“What’s wrong?” Rohan asked, hovering awkwardly as he wanted to help but didn’t want to take a superhuman slap to the shins.

“Oh-ho, that b-bitch is being a-a-ah… that.” She said, her arms wobbling as she struggled to prop herself up on her stump. “She’s tickling me.”

“You can still feel your lower half?” Rohan asked.

“Of course, What would be the fun in stealing my legs if I couldn’t feel what she was doing to them?” Carrie asked through grit teeth.

“I thought she’d be wearing them.” Rohan explained.

“Oh, no. They’re way too small for her.” Carrie flatly observed. She concentrated on her distant legs and squirming feet, Syrennia the One and Only running her soft hands up and down her soles. She tried ignoring them with all her might, trying to will herself tickle-proof even as her vulnerable tummy was besieged by the cruel witch. While this wasn’t the worst the witch could be doing, the way her fingers slowed as they passed her inner thighs and squeezed around the edges of her extremely tender cut surface made it clear that ruder touches were coming. While Carrie was still wearing her denim shorts and plain panties, as leaving the house bottomless felt really uncomfortable even when literally bottomless, she had the sneaking suspicion the witch only agreed to dressing her so that she’d have another prop to toy with later.

For now, Syrennia the One and Only relented, giving Carrie’s cut surface a firm slap as she climbed off of the couch and vanished into abyss surrounding Carrie's 1/5 sensed lower half. “Bitch.” She muttered, then guiltily looked around to see if any kids were present. The streets were mostly empty, and what heads she did turn were all adults for whom naughty words were the least concerning thing about Carrie’s condition. “Come on, we’re gonna be late. -er.”

Rohan and Carrie heard the restaurant bustling from a block away, yet as soon as they stepped through the door they were greeted by deathly silence. Half the patrons quickly remembered their manners and took renewed interest in their food, while the other half abandoned decency and openly gawked at the odd couple. Rohan was certainly not an every-day sight; a short, athletic, clean shaven Indian covered in scars, one wrist adorned with a fat plastic watch and the other a thin gold bracelet, dressed in a white blazer and pastel pink undershirt. He looked like he’d survived a head on collision with Doc Brown’s DeLorean and emerged from the wreckage into the wrong decade. It said a lot about the pair that the time traveler was the more mundane one. On top of the gaudy color clash between her olive green shirt, orange and white gardening gloves, fluorescent yellow bag, and her opal necklace, the fact that Carrie was missing everything below the ribs and was nimbly walking around on her hands made her all but impossible to ignore.

“I guess we’re tonight’s entertainment.” Rohan stage whispered, jolting the patrons and staff into a wave of ostentatiously loud eating and idle chatter. Carrie, unaccustomed to turning so many heads but not minding the attention, smiled and stood on one arm as she waved at people desperately pretending they weren’t staring. Rohan approached reception and confirmed their reservation, the notoriously snippy staff escorting them to their table without a word about their lateness or dress code.

“Hmm…” Carrie said, looking up at the spindly wooden chair and trying to figure out how she’d climb in without toppling it.

While their server did nothing but mumble incoherent fragments as she tried to figure out how she could help without drawing attention, Rohan simply asked “Need a lift?”

“After refusing to drive us here?” Carrie joked, realizing that was funnier in her head.

Rohan shrugged and did his best to play off the weak joke. “I didn’t think you’d want a ride from the guy who crashes cars for a living.” Without further prompting, he reached beneath Carrie’s stump and lifted her off the ground, her arms awkwardly dangling beneath her. Rohan was having no trouble keeping hold of her, so putting her arms around his shoulders felt weird, but wrapping them around her own chest would make her front heavy and awkward to carry. By the time she was beginning to make up her mind, she found herself descending into her seat, the soft cushion and hard knot of tightly bound shirt against her stump sending her brain conflicting signals.

“Thanks. Er…” Carrie realized that without her butt, hips, and belly, her seated height had been lowered considerably, her chin hovering just above the tabletop like a pet awaiting scraps. She gave Rohan puppy dog eyes, complete with whimper, and he pretended to have an itchy nose as an excuse to cover his mouth before he could burst out laughing. He took his seat, shoulders trembling with the effort of his restraint.

“Uh… ma’am? Would you… want me to get you a cushion or something?” The server asked, having no idea how to phrase that question without sounding condescending.

Knowing the server meant well and needing the help, Carrie answered “Yeah, and, if it’s no trouble, maybe a chair with armrests? So I don’t fall over? I’m a lot less stable without… a butt.”

“Right away, ma’am.” The server said, all but bowing before she retreated to the rear of the restaurant.

Looking across the table at Rohan, who was still struggling to suppress his smile, Carrie returned the smirk and said “Is it just me, or has the ambiance here hit a low?”

“Shameful.” Rohan said, ambiguous about whether he was addressing or responding to the joke. He and Carrie shared a laugh, after which they locked eyes. They saw the same thing in each others’ gaze. This really was a date, and it had officially started. “It takes some getting used to, but I’m beginning to enjoy the view.”

Either Syrennia the One and Only could expertly read lower half body language, or she was doing fiendish magic trickery to divine opportune moments to strike. Her long, thick fingers wrapped themselves around Carrie’s waist, thumbs resting on the cut surface and swirling in tiny circles, making carries halves nearly launch from their respective seats as they jolted as one. “Something happen?” Rohan asked, before looking around and whispering “Something with your other half?”

Carrie scanned the room and saw hair whipping around the backs of heads. While enough noise had returned that it was doubtful they’d be overheard, Carrie was suddenly much more self conscious of every action. She gave Rohan a small nod, gripping the table for dear life as Syrennia the One and Only loosed her belt and slipped her fingers beneath the hem of Carrie’s jean shorts, waiting just long enough for Carrie to start getting comfortable before rotating both hands in towards her crotch.

“Ma’am?” Their server asked, materializing right as Syrennia the One and Only’s hands met in Carrie’s pants. Carrie flinched, her grip keeping her seated even as the table audibly rocked. The server jumped back a little with a squeak, drawing every eye. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you!”

“S’fine.” Carrie mumbled, forcing herself into as casual of a pose as half a girl getting felt up by a witch could. “If y’could just set that chair next to this’n. I’ll climb in.” Carrie said. She’d been trying to avoid a further scene in making Rohan get out of his seat or making the uncomfortable server touch her, but keeping her balance as she made the switch, with Syrennia the One and Only teasingly rubbing her panties and inner thighs, would be no small feat.

The server complied, setting the armed chair with its cushion resting on the seat beside Carrie’s current chair. The restaurant held its breath, as if waiting along with Carrie for a break in the witch’s assault. Rohan uncomfortably fiddled with his watch, knowing he should jump in but caught in a Catch-22. If the strong Indian man offered to help the disabled woman who said she could do it herself, he’d invite jeers of being a patronizing ableist misogynist. If he stood by and did nothing for someone in obvious need of help, he was a selfish douche bag and still a misogynist.

Before a jeer or bystander was roused, Carrie tossed herself up and into the seat, landing backwards but spinning around to face her date. Syrennia the One and Only had mistimed her attack, vigorously rubbing the outside of Carrie’s panties only after she’d crossed. “Ta-da!” Carrie said, panting a little and trying to pass it off as exertion instead of excitement. The patrons didn’t know whether to laugh or pretend they weren’t paying attention, a smattering of awkward applause rising and swiftly dying.

“Uh, menu.” The server said, setting two menus on the table and cringing at her inability to form sentences. “I’m Casey, by the way. I’ll be your server. If there’s anything else I can do to accommodate you, let me know.” A flash of cringe returned as she realized she sounded put out by her differently-abled guest. Looking for a way out, Casey grabbed the superfluous chair and said “I’ll get this out of the way. Be right back with water, and to take your drink orders.” before taking her leave.

“Sweet girl.” Carrie muttered, empathizing with the embarrassed wreck as she herself struggled not to squirm. Syrennia the One and Only had pulled down both her pants and panties, but had not removed them. Instead, the witch had yanked Carrie’s belt taught around her ankles, binding them together and leaving her somehow more helpless and vulnerable. She felt rustling in her bush, either the ceiling fan was on high or Syrennia the One and Only was taking a long whiff. Carrie bit her lip. “Why'd I agree to this?!”

“You’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face, and I’ve got the prettiest in the biz.” Rohan said, smiling an off-center smile beneath a beaten nose. Carrie laughed, widening his smile and bringing a brilliant shine to his slashed up cheeks and narrow set eyes. Despite the sarcasm and self deprecation, Rohan owned his particular look so well, from the deliberately dated clothes to the athletic but narrow build to the scars and fractures that acted as the stuntman’s flesh resume, that it transcended its own absurdity and looped back around to genuine cool. Not that she was friends with him for his coolness. He was still her best friend back in highschool, when he was known as the squeaky gay theater weirdo. Carrie was the only one who believed him when he insisted he was straight, and likewise Rohan was the only one who believed Carrie when she came out as pansexual, rather than accuse her of attention seeking. They’d always trusted, supported, and believed in one another. That was the root of their longstanding friendship, and the potential root for their romantic relationship.

Assuming he accepted Carrie’s ongoing relationship with her roommate, a big thing to accept as he actively watched it go on. Rohan wasn’t about to be someone’s side piece or third wheel, and while Carrie insisted her relationship with the witch lacked romance, it was still something she absolutely should’ve mentioned before the date. They’d made dinner plans Thursday, knowing it was a date without having to say it, and in the one day between then and now, she’d gone and gotten magically fucked up in every sense. At least she admitted it, not trying to lie or obfuscate, but was that really an apology? Was he owed an apology? He certainly felt so. He would’ve apologized to her.

Rohan’s thoughts were interrupted by the clink of glass on wood. “Here’s your water.” Casey said, setting glasses and a tall, narrow pitcher on the table. “So, have you had a chance to look over the menu? Any drinks I can get you? Appetizers?”

“A bottle of the Huelva white and a straw, please.” Carrie said, handing Casey the wine menu with an obvious sense of finality. The server took the hint and fucked off, giving the diners their modicum of privacy. Carrie shuddered, gasping and gripping the arms of her chair. “I'm gonna kill her I swear.” Carrie whispered, sweat glistening on her brow. Syrennia the One and Only had a hand on either abbreviated end of her, one forcefully squeezing her feet and popping her ticklish toes one by one while the other brushed across the surface of her vulva with almost teasing tenderness.

Rohan frowned, fighting to keep his own composure.  “Carrie, I-”

“I’m sorry!” Carrie spat out, burying her crimson face in her hands. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t fair to you and you’ve been the best friend anyone could ever ask for and I’m a total slut and you don’t deserve this and I don’t deserve you and I’m so stupid and I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me!”

Rohan blinked, and took a quick scan of the room. While he doubted anyone had heard, some certainly saw. They didn’t know what was going on with Carrie. As usual, Rohan was the only one who understood her. He understood she meant every word. “I was just going to ask, why the straw?”

Carrie unshielded her face, her expression a wreck of conflicting emotions and smudging makeup. “Don’t want to smash my glass.” She sheepishly answered, flexing her magically empowered fingers. Realizing she’d never removed her gardening gloves, Carrie did so, tucking them into her hideous bag. “Seriously, I am such a shit friend. Shit person. Why are you still here?”

The server returned with the bottle, two wine glasses, and straw, silencing their conversation and giving Rohan an opportunity to reflect on the question as he went through the motions of smelling, sampling, and approving the wine for the table. Watching Carrie over the rim of his glass, her lips smashed together like she’d just sucked an invisible lemon, her shoulders subtly trembling, her waist twitching as her unseen hips shook… well, it was hot. Fantasizing what this mysterious witch was getting up to, what was making Carrie squirm, thinking about what he could do to her once her hips were returned, it was the most bizarre foreplay imaginable. He sipped the wine, not even registering the taste as he imagined Carrie’s. Was the witch sampling her now? Was she saving that for some grand finale? Would the taste of the witch's tongue linger?

He stared at Carrie as he sipped, agonizingly slow, keeping the server right at their side and forcing Carrie to keep her composure even as Syrennia the One and Only began well and truly ravaging her. Carrie knew he was teasing her, knew she sort of deserved it, and knew that if this stupid bimbo didn’t get out of her face in the next two seconds, her head would explode in a shower of blood as her blush reached critical mass.

“That's good, thank you. We'll need a few more minutes to look over the dinner menu, though.” Rohan said, taking the bottle and pouring Carrie and himself a hearty serving. Casey nodded and shuffled off, not sure what the hell was going on and not wanting to be any more a part of it than she had to.

Carrie grabbed her napkin and shoved it to her mouth, closing her eyes and moaning into the makeshift gag loud enough for Rohan to hear every shift in pitch and shudder, and long enough to take two solid swigs of wine. “That is quite nice. Good selection, Carrie.” He remarked, actually taking in the taste.

When she could speak again, the sweaty, weakly grinning mess that was Carrie said “Ass.” before dropping her straw into the wine glass and emptying it in one long suck.

Rohan dutifully refilled the glass, briefly wondering if her stomach was in her top or bottom half then remembering he didn’t really care. “I just thought that we would have a much simpler discussion if we were both bad friends. Level the playing field.”

“Fair.” Carrie said, relaxing in her chair with a posture that let him subconsciously know that she’d spread her unseen legs wide and was giving the molesting witch free access. “So, where do you see us, now?”

“Do you want something serious, or are you just looking for dick?” Rohan bluntly asked.

“I’m sure Syrennia could grow one if that’s all I wanted.” Carrie answered with equal bluntness, grunting as the witch sent a probing finger to her backdoor. “You are the only person I've had any romantic attraction to since college, and I think I always knew I wanted you like that, but didn’t want to fuck up our friendship if it didn’t work out. I needed you too much as my friend to take that risk.”

“Would you be looking for some kind of open relationship, or would we be exclusive?” Rohan asked, watching Carrie shake and bite her lip.

Carrie buried her face in her hands and shook like a leaf, stifling her orgasmic cries more out of common courtesy than embarrassment at this point. She felt Syrennia the One and Only ease up, switching to a tender massage of her quivering thighs and rump. She couldn’t give this up, and wouldn’t lie to herself or Rohan saying so. “Not like… ‘open’ open, but… like, you would be my exclusive partner and bitchy witchy would be my exclusive roomie with benefits. Nobody else. So like, a menage a trios?”

Rohan was silent for a long time, thinking it over. In the end, the multitude questions bouncing around in his head all boiled down to one. “Would we both be sharing her?”

Carrie burst out in laughter, collapsing to the table. “Rohan, if she ever wants a piece of my ass again, I am MAKING her fuck your brains out. You haven’t had sex like magic sex; trust me, we'll be sharing this dirty little magic slut!”

The restaurant was dead silent.

“Shall we skip dinner?” Rohan asked, producing his wallet.

“Let’s.” Carrie answered, shoving her gloves back on before spilling onto the floor. “I’m sure we can find something good to eat at my place.”