Illusion or delusion? Insanity or reality? Perhaps a higher octave of existence or merely a fractured mind? The ordeals terrified her, at first, and it was a long journey back. No explanation, other than delusional schizophrenia, accounted for her unique experiences. Science, magick, and conjecture only raised more questions, never providing a single answer. Other women her age fretted over dates, lovers, and whether they’d pass their finals; Freya’s anxieties were rooted in her inability to control her very existence.
Predominant with curses, hers reared its cruel, demonic head just after puberty, during that nebulous time on the hormone-fueled cusp of adulthood, no longer a child but not quite an adult. According to the vast majority of legends, her plight was rooted in her parents’ lifestyles. After all, they had paved the road; Freya was fated to travel it.
Ceremonial magicians, devout followers of Thelema, the solipsism of Satanism, and The Golden Dawn, her parents sought power and wealth through metaphysical means. Freya was a byproduct of one of their mystic rituals, the result of the coupling between Choronzon and Gaia—the deities personified through her parents’ copulating bodies as hordes of believers watched, chanting spells. The otherworldly mysticism that some others dabbled in was her daily fare, her natural habitat.
Her upbringing was far from normal, but Freya enjoyed the freedoms and latitude of being viewed as an inconvenience, not a beloved member of her family. As the only offspring, she was mostly left to her own devices, pursuing hedonism rather than academics. At the tender age of sixteen—the same age as her mother when she was “infected” with pregnancy—she was inducted into the inner circle. Enjoying the nudity, drugs, and sexual debauchery, Freya eschewed the twisted and bizarre self-serving ways of her parents and their coven, as they erroneously called themselves, but enthusiastically participated, eagerly feeding her libidinous desires.
A young woman with pert, medium-sized breasts and a sexy figure aglow with youthful vitality, Freya had an edgy, provocative aura about her. Finding a cock to play with, a wet pussy to enjoy, or even seducing the acolytes of the coven’s members was easy. Considered dangerous and freakish by her classmates, young men and women lined up to sample her; she had her pick. The older men and openly bisexual or lesbian women among her parents’ friends were more than eager to taste her hot wetness.
Freya was hot, sexy, and darkly alluring, and her hedonism didn’t evolve; it erupted with all the fury of an exploding sun. Her fiery hair, nubile figure, and rebellious wardrobe made her exotic enough to be noticed. She leveraged her assets to her advantage, trading high marks for sex and enjoying the fruits of sexuality with others. Even after she’d found her path back, some months after her curse first manifested, she continued her ways of debauchery—just not in front of any mirrors and candles. Her curse lay dormant unless three ingredients were present: candles for the only light, a mirror in front of her impassioned face, and an intense orgasm.
Conceived during the Feast for the Equinox of the Gods and born on the solstice, Freya’s birthday coincided with rituals. Intoxicated, stoned, and hallucinating, having drank copious amounts of psychotropic “elixir” during the rituals, Freya retired to a dark, candlelit antechamber. One of the priests, a man twenty years her senior, followed. On all fours, her hand between her legs, fingering her clit, she took his hard shaft in her most sacred of magical places, getting herself off to the lusty expressions on her reflected visage. As he thrust deeply inside her, his turgid cock pile-driving into her sopping wetness, she exploded in an orgasm of earth-shattering intensity, and the world around her morphed into something else.
The dark, baroque room, filled with mystic tapestries, candles, cushions, dark wood, and an ornate mirror, instantly transmogrified into a well-lit, pastel-colored room. Lemon walls, bright lighting, and a messy bed, upon which she writhed, replaced her original environment. The hand-carved, ornate mirror Freya had been staring into had also transmuted into a rectangular, regular mirror. The dark wood frame, depicting carved demons subjugating angels, was gone, a smaller, reflective plane in this place.
Screaming in panicked hysterics, much to the chagrin of the twenty-something blond woman nestled between her legs and lapping at her clit, Freya jumped off the bed, tripping over the tangled sheets wrapped around her, and fled, screaming into the night. The building was unfamiliar but somehow tugged at her forebrain in some surreal sense of déjà vu. The night sky seemed alien, furthering her confusion and horror; even the constellations were strange, and the crescent, Spring moon had replaced the fullness of the Winter’s beacon she’d spied just hours ago.
”Look!” some random, handsome young man guffawed as he pointed. “Freya’s streaking again. Woo-hoo!”
Freya, her red hair billowing in the warm breeze as she ran through the hauntingly familiar landscape, ignored the strangers. It wasn’t until she’d hidden her nude and terrified self in some woods that she was able to stop mindlessly fleeing. That world, or delusion, or whatever it was, was, ultimately, a different iteration of her world. The names were the same, and everything somewhat resembled her stoic reality. In this particular realm, she was still a high school sophomore, but she was at a boarding school, having a passionate, lesbian affair with her roommate, Jenna, and was a known and respected rebel, not at all feared by her peers.
Weeks passed, turning into months, and Freya was still trapped in her alternate reality. Although it was superior, in many regards, to the life she’d known, it wasn’t home. She dared not discuss her horrific situation, lest she be committed, and she questioned her sanity. What if this had been her life all along, and her mystic parents, the rituals, and other things were naught but a shadowy dream? Sometimes, it felt that way.
During a drunken night of lesbian sex, Freya accidentally discovered how to activate her portals. While her adventures were always sexual, and she remained herself, she slipped through the looking glass, anew, another world randomly appearing around her. In that third, alternate world, she was a stripper with a Goth persona, and she raked in the money, making nasty, dirty, old men cum in their pants. The worlds went on, spiraling endlessly outward, each new reality becoming less familiar and more freakish.
Through serendipitous happenstance, she stumbled upon her return configuration. In that distant, peculiar version of her reality, she worked in a clothing store as part-time high school help. In that universe or whatever it was, her coworker, a ruggedly handsome athlete named Josh, had a pervasive sexual attraction to her.
In that reality, violent, destructive storms raged through the area a few times each week. During storm lockdowns, they retreated into the dressing rooms for safety. During a particularly nasty squall, the store's power went out, and they lit candles for light. Riding Josh's hard cock in the dressing room, in the cowgirl position, she fondled her clit and nipples to an intense orgasm, the dressing room mirrors casting infinite versions of her horny lust. Her original reality recomposed itself in time with her lusty, orgasmic waves of pleasure.
The baroque antechamber surrounded her once more, and the dark priest was blowing his load all over her shapely, youthful ass. Only seconds had passed to the rest of the universe; to Freya, crying tears out of her pale, gray eyes, it had nearly been an entire year.
“Your hole’s so tight,” the man told her, wiping his cock clean on her bare thighs. “Did you like watching yourself get fucked?”
Freya didn’t respond. In a daze, she gathered her clothing and walked out of the room, trance-like, ignoring her nude, moaning parents and the writhing orgy in the ritual hall. Although she never once had any sexual contact with her parents, as some things were forbidden even in their demented philosophy, she’d partaken of those orgiastic delights more than once. The other mystics would feast on her nectar, making her cum over and over. That time, however, Freya simply dressed and walked home, as she sometimes did. She needed the time to think, but that did her little good.
Questioning her sanity, Freya submerged herself in alternate-reality pseudo-science, physics, the arcane arts, and even modern versions of paganism, seeking the elusive answers. Finally, she settled on foregoing the use of candles and the avoidance of mirrors. Her libido, however, remained in overdrive, as if she was stuck in the horny, lusty state she’d been in when she first went insane.
It wasn’t until college, finally escaping the talons of her occultist upbringing, that curiosity got the better of her. Her roommate was Cassandra, a mix of Asian and Caucasian, and as intelligent as she was beautiful. They bonded quickly, both feeling as if they were outcasts, albeit for very different reasons. Cassandra and Freya talked about everything, Freya’s splintered psyche being the only exception.
Freya eventually felt compelled to visit an occult shop and buy some candles and a large, ornate divination mirror. One fall evening, the wind moaning through the windows, she lit a single candle and placed it between her meditating self and the gateway of a mirror, determined to prove to herself that the bittersweet journey through possible realities was nothing more than a pleasant dream woven around a nightmare, brought on by illicit drugs and her wanton sexuality.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” she chanted, feeling silly. “Show me I’m not crazy at all.”
Although Freya was mostly agnostic, putting her faith in neither the Christ God nor the various demons and ethereal entities of her parents’ faith, she somewhat believed in a higher, cosmic, divine power. Desperately trying to remember the ritual preparation and mindset of her upbringing, she rocked her body back and forth, chanting and concentrating. Other than the candle’s flame flickering, nothing happened. Multiple attempts netted the same result, absolutely nil.
Recalling her studies into the new-age versions of witchcraft, Freya remembered that most practiced magick in the nude, what they called skyclad. The pagan authors claimed that it meant, “Clad only by the sky." Worshipers celebrated their mortal form as they sought the divine, baring their true selves to their gods. Freya felt that it was just an excuse to get naked because nude people dancing, chanting, and writhing often led to sex. Nonetheless, she stripped off her clothes and restarted her meditative ritual, attempting to shatter reality in lieu of a different one. Again, nothing happened.
Feeling embarrassed with herself and silly, as well as pondering seeking therapy, Freya looked at her nude body in the mirror. The candle cast an ethereal, spectral glow around her body, softening the edges and adding a mystical allure to her already incredibly sexy body. In harsh lighting, she looked mysterious, sexy, and hot; awash in the dim illumination of the candlelight; she looked like a dark, angelic demoness.
Her fiery hair, long and flowing, had that tousled, just-fucked look about it. Freya’s eyes shone from her face like steely beacons, mesmerizing and sultry. The eighteen-year-old’s breasts, high, plump, and pert, were, perhaps, a bit on the small side but perfectly formed; her nipples stood out, tilting slightly upward, sitting atop puffy areolas. An enviable hourglass figure curved down and out into full, lush hips, and her cleanly-shaven mound puffed out, causing gasps and horny reactions when viewed from behind. That is, if her voyeurs could peel their gaze away from her sexy ass.
She stuck her tongue out at her shadowy, seductive reflection and ran her hands down her taut torso, resting her fingers between her legs. Lust demons danced on her flesh, making her entire body tingle, and Freya took advantage of the moment’s mood and began fingering herself slowly and gently. Moaning with growing abandon, Freya plunged one finger, then another, into her molten sex, fingering herself with increasing wildness, surrendering to the soul-consuming heatwaves of passion.
Her other hand cupped her shapely, sexy breasts, lifting them toward her lips. They were too small to reach her eager mouth, but if she extended her tongue, the highly-aroused woman could stimulate the tips of her engorged nipples if she tilted her head forward, pressing her chin against her steaming flesh.
Fantasies flickered through her mind in a passionate montage. Past lovers, her wild, sexual behavior, and fictional scenarios played out in her mind. Her lust-driven fingers found magical places inside her oozing sex, and her body ignited, the fires of her flesh burning to match the fire crowning her head. Her nipples, sometimes tongue-flicked, other times squeezed between frenetic fingers, tingled in erotic need. Freya moaned, sighed, writhed, and shrieked in lustful delight, losing herself in ecstatic surrender.
Freya’s mind fractured—fragmented shards of consciousness and self fading and splintering away. Only raw passion and primal lust remained, her entire body writhing to the frequencies of erotic bliss. Her lusty energy sent harmonic waves of tingling arousal and endless pleasure spinning through the cosmos. All surroundings fell away, tumbling into the horny void, as she no longer fixated on her ever-growing yearning for sexual debauchery or people and events, be they real or imagined. As her body rose and fell, her hands roaming and plunging into her molten desire, Freya became pure emotion, pervasive rapture, and blissful, carnal joy.
Her innermost core glowed with the blazing heat of the sun, rays of Eros emanating outward, permeating the universe with lust, desire, and sexual craving. She was no longer Freya—her soul expanding into and melding with all that was sexually beautiful and glorious. She became lust, passionate love, physical exploration, and primal need. Freya’s disembodied essence felt a thousand fingers molesting her overheated flesh, a million hard cocks and gushing pussies pleasuring her soul, and a billion orgasms, all felt in unison, simultaneously erupting throughout the universe.
Frothy waves of ecstasy cascaded against the walls of her soul, tickling and lapping against her barriers of self. The waves ebbed, waned, and then slammed against her, increasing in power and rising to great, bliss-filled heights. The soul-rending, carnal intensity of her growing orgasm would soon crash through her or rise so high that horny rapture would pour over her barricades of identity, drowning her in universe-creating pleasure.
Freya’s fingers were buried in her volcanic, erupting cunt, her oozing, sweet, sexual honey dripping out of her sodden snatch. It dripped downward, over her clenching asshole, and slowly dribbled onto the floor. A lusty puddle grew as she dripped, soaking her thighs and butt. Then, time and reality deteriorated into fragmented wisps of primal emotion, finally ceasing altogether. The young woman, her fingers plunging, hair flailing as her body convulsed in sexual seizure, became a formless, timeless mass of writhing lust, overwhelming desire, and urgent, horny need.
No longer fantasizing, her entire being undulating and humping with the sensual rhythm of the cosmos. Freya’s carnal thoughts and feelings exploded into lifetimes of erotic pleasure; entire existences, all centered around carnal lust. Freya’s steel-gray eyes blazed with pale, sultry fire, her eyelids searing with every blink. Her fingers pummeled her flooded pussy, slamming into her drenched hole as her hand pounded against her swollen clit with every thrust. The young woman's head thrashed about, teeth gnashing, and she screamed in grunting, primeval delight.
She was a wanton and willing sex slave, used by armies of horny angels; a succubus on a sex-bender, exhausting and draining the demons of Hades; and an immortal goddess of sex made young, vibrant flesh, fucking and sucking every horny, willing entity. Her heaving tits, topped with pink, swollen tips that tingled in lusty oblivion, shot passion-charged, carnal lightning bolts through her mortal coil. Her breasts were reddened with desire and slickened by languid beads of passion’s sweat, meandering downward in rivulets between them.
The warm, loving blackness of desire cracked and shattered, giving way to chaotic brightness as she fucked herself, nearing explosive release. Newly-born stars twinkled, danced, and collided against her essence. Her horny intensity had grown to astronomical proportions, yet, still, Freya assaulted her physical being, her limbs a sexually-frenzied blur. The waves of orgasmic joy had grown to immensity, impassioned release splashing over her heart and soul, showering her in sweet, salty lust. Growing to the intensity of a tidal wave, further powered by desire's stormy squalls, Freya’s mouth screamed incoherent sounds of passion, her arching back nearly snapping.
With her head thrown back, quaking from side to side, her hair wildly flying to and fro, her self-administered pleasure reached its summit, then exploded with nuclear fury, rending her body as the lust-addled talons of pleasure raked at her soul. Every mote of her body was reduced to a primal, instinctive, sexual spark, its cosmic energy radiating outward, warming her flesh and pleasuring every nerve fiber. Freya no longer existed; she was naught but a primordial pleasure receptacle, greedily feasting upon the horny energy of the universe. The last vestiges of her humanity, searing with the intensity of her orgasm, joined with the nameless, shapeless void of the all; the lusty power of the multiverse funneled erotic joy into and through her.
Obliterated, then reconstituted by passion, the crashing, furious hammering of blissful lust torturing her with ecstatic delight, Freya’s senses dissolved in sheer pleasure. She tasted desire, smelled sex, saw only heavenly pleasure, and felt only impassioned lust. Her carnal bliss consumed her, feeling primal and natural, and it coursed rampant and unfettered through her boiling veins. In both the single beating of her pulsing heart and countless infinities, the young woman floated through the horny ether, clouds of passion blanketing her heaving, undulating flesh until the world literally dissolved, leaving her glowing in a writhing, moaning, sated heap.
As her orgasm subsided, errant shards of Freya’s essence drifted back to her, reforming the mortal woman in flesh, blood, and horny passion. A moaning sigh, her vocal cords once more material, escaped her panting mouth. The young woman’s hands continued caressing her sexually heightened, nearly-perfectly-proportioned body, tugging on her swollen nipples, sloshing and fingering the wetness between her distended, swollen cunt lips.
When the college Freshman regained control over her body, Freya tentatively opened her eyes, a startled scream emanating from deep within her lungs. The painted brick walls of her ancient dorm room no longer existed. In their stead was a dark bedroom filled with black lace, dark-art posters, and lined with myriad mirrors. Before her, a large mirror with an ornate, gilded, and antiqued frame housed a full-length mirror, a single black candle burning brightly before it. Except for an artistic, inverted pentagram tattoo just beneath her breasts, she was still herself, but the entire world had morphed around her cumming body.
The walls of this spacious boudoir were painted a velvety black, the centerpiece being a large, Gothic-styled, four-post bed, its silken canopy a satiny blood-red with black lace trim. Silk blankets and lacy sheets adorned the queen-sized fixture. Dark pillows of black, scarlet, and emerald were precisely placed. A small, high-quality stereo, playing ethereal music, sat on a shelf suspended from the ornate Victorian ceiling by chains.
Mirrors were everywhere: rectangular, trapezoidal, round, oval, and with every type of frame imaginable. They clung to the walls, covering the majority of the blackness; some were even adhered to the ceiling, and large, unframed ones lined the wall behind the latticed metal head of the bed. Ropes, black and red, were tied to the headboard, a pair of cuffs dangling off of the top railing.
“Vain much?” Freya mused as she looked about, her fingers still circling her engorged clit. “It seems that I truly am crazy, after all.”
To be continued…
