A song is simply a spell put to music. Music, itself, is a powerful, wordless incantation, a synergy of the heart, soul, and mind weaving itself around the lyrics, both of them empowering the other. It tugs at your essence, evoking powerful emotions and states of mind. There is an undeniable, seductive magic to a song. This is why musicians tend to be passionate, memorable lovers. Their seductive magic permeates all they do with passion.
Likewise, seduction is its own kind of magic, similar to a song or at least a dance. True, soul-consuming seduction is not mere words; flirtatious phrases, a touch or caress, or visual delight are but a paltry few of the instruments of seduction. Individually, they are sweet, soulful, and heartwarming, but, together, in tandem, they create a symphony of arousing discourse, an orchestra of desire. Those rare few, conductors of the symphony of seduction, play the orchestra for your carnal bliss, a virtuoso’s solo performed upon your flesh.
But, alas, very few people, men or women, fully understand that the joyous art of seduction is the sum of the whole, not a lone technique. When the would-be Casanova has mastered the magical song of seduction, dancing an overheated tango to the thundering pulse of your passion, the universe shrinks, only encompassing that singular moment, every word hypnotically arousing, each touch setting your nerves on horny fire. Those blessed few are the ones that make the symphonic dance of seduction its own magic and you, the lucky recipient.
Within that tiny subsection of truly accomplished seducers, all of them wonderful and rare, there are a sparse few, so adept that their seductive prowess borders on the magical, who project a hypnotic, intense aura of passionate sexuality, one of such intensity that women are immediately drawn to them, hurling themselves at him with wild, horny abandon. From her first glance to her final parting words, such seducers hold ladies deeply in their thrall, reducing her to a quivering, needy mass of wanton heat, perverted desires, and giddy enamorment.
This poetry of the soul permeates all these sorts say, do, or even think. From their always handsome, sexy exterior to the most minuscule motes of their soul, they play their songs of passion for all to experience, radiating horny arousal, sexual allure, and a magical aura that draws others to them. They are the vibrant flame, and women, helpless against their charisma, are but moths, inexplicably and helplessly drawn.
These treasured few have no need to pursue romance; it charges toward them, headlong, with wild, slutty abandon. While others try every gimmick, approach, or line, these poetic, enthralling, and very rare few are, naturally and instinctively, the ones who have mastered the fine, subtle, magical art of radiating charm. As Albert Camus has said, charm is the art of getting the answer, “Yes,” before a question has even been posed. A wink, a nod, a smile, or even a sideways glance is all it takes for women to prostrate themselves before him, begging and pleading for his attention.
He was such a man, but mere words could not describe his personal magnetism or overwhelming aura of hypnotic sensuality. Solely based upon his countenance and bearing, he would have no shortage of feminine interest, but there are myriad things in addition to one’s attractiveness that make an individual sexy. With him, the gods gave more than generously, and they kept on giving. Although disconcertingly self-aware, comprehension of his true charisma, the force of his essence, was either lost on him or ignored. For all intents, he was utterly oblivious of his effect upon women. Perhaps, that was part of his endless charm.
Medium blond hair in lazy, unruly strands danced around his finely chiseled, masculine features, descending past his shoulders. His hypnotic, multicolored, hazel eyes, edged with vibrancy, pierced the soul. A muscular, symmetrical visage, including prominent, sexy cheekbones, kissable lips with a slight pout, and brilliant teeth that shone through his crooked-but-charming, roguish smile gave him an imp-like sense of mirth, his jovial, deep personality endlessly buttressing that initial impression. No matter the woman’s preference, just his face was a horny vision that elicited a passion-laden, sexual response.
His body looked and felt as if a master artist had sculpted him from the finest, smoothest, hard marble. Muscle-bound to the point of perfection—not grotesquely overblown, just perfectly chiseled to make mouths and pussies drool—broad shoulders gave way to an extremely well-defined chest, then tapered down to a tiny, envy-inducing waist, a ribbed abdomen adding contours. From top to bottom, front, and back, Glevin was one of the few men that stunned women, the mere sight of him churning up slutty, horny desire and the overpowering compulsion to act on those primal feelings.
Kindred to sexy-looking women the world over, albeit nonplussed by the phenomenon, Glevin could seldom walk more than a few paces without some woman throwing herself at him. In his subjective reality, women were simply like that; to Glevin, women were amazing, unique creatures, filled with astounding intellects, and they were always horny and sexually wild. He was, of course, ignorant to the fact that such sorts of aggressively aroused behavior didn’t apply to more than one in a million men, if even that many. He was just one of them and never saw a reason to question reality.
Seated alone at a small table in a quaint, Bohemian-type bar, Glevin nursed a drink, a simple, honeyed rum, and partook of his favorite pastime, observing humanity in the wild. To the casual eye, he seemed a bit anachronistic, dressed in worn and faded jeans that, somehow, enhanced his natural sexiness, and a crinkly, linen shirt, in black with a V-neck, that accentuated his fine, pussy-drenching, manly physique. His ever-present moccasins adorned his feet, giving him a free-spirit, hippie vibe. Glevin’s appearance and demeanor gave an overpowering “charming rogue leader of the rebellion” mien, and, although alone and sitting quietly away from the crowd, he was instantly noteworthy, not cut from the same cloth as the rest of his peers.
Women, while accomplished seducers, tend to be ill-equipped to handle one such as Glevin, especially on the emotional level. Used to generic men parroting trite pickup lines and fending off crass and too-aggressive advances, most women have “a type” of man that they hold in their mind’s eye as a potential mate. Brandishing their lengthy suitor-requirements before them as if they were swords, shields, and armor, women defend themselves against the relentless onslaught of unwanted sexual attention by citing their self-imposed criteria. “You’re not my type,” is, typically, the first line of defense.
For most women, there’s a burning need to feel something special before any potential Lothario gets a second glance. Men, being visually aroused, falling all over themselves to potentially bed an attractive woman, is the commonest trope in history. With one hand on their dicks and another on their wallets, most guys will try, say, or do anything if they felt it would help them get laid. One of the universe’s more cruel bits of irony is that while men get into a rutting state of horny desire by merely looking at an attractive person, women need mental and emotional stimulation before any visual delights have an impact—at least usually. There are those scant few people in the world that short-circuit every bit of mental and emotional wiring a woman possesses; then, all bets are off, and the woman’s “type” is forgotten.
If the man is handsome, charismatic, or just has that seductive aura about him, all women’s preferences, criteria, requisites, and trepidation disintegrate. Indescribable, the effects of a masterful seducer, playing her heartstrings like a virtuoso, are legion. Gone is the quiet reserve where she gives subtle signals, hoping to be chased. How to act like a respectable lady is forgotten, such notions imprisoned in the darkest retreats of her psyche. All the woman’s poise, self-respect, and polite decency are eradicated, making room for her primal, sexual urges and all-consuming emotions to have free rein.
For Tori, whose full name was Victoria, the night began as most, with her dolling herself up for nobody in particular and heading out to a local bar for some fun conversation, girl-girl bonding, and drinking with her friends. It was their bi-weekly ritual, a tradition since the days of high school when boys were the main topic of conversation. As adults, they now spoke about life’s travails—and men. While she wasn’t looking for love or even sex, lust-charged lightning struck her the moment she saw him.
Akin to going tharn, Tori lost several talents, simultaneously; the emotional impact of seeing a man like that rended her heart, soul, and consciousness. The ability to form coherent words fled her mind, making her stammer and stutter, mid-sentence. Her heart proved quantum states by stopping and thundering at once. Tori’s mind reeled, then splintered away, proving all the vapid blonde jokes true; the only thought her lust-addled brain could conjure was, I need to get him in my bed.
Physically, the tall, statuesque beauty’s reaction could readily be gauged. Her breath sharpened, her pulse quickened, her temperature increased to volcanic, and her eyes bulged out as she dropped her jaw, staring at the sexiest, most perfect man to ever cross her field of vision. Her logical, cooler self remained, somehow disembodied from the rest of her. It was as if she were watching a movie of herself, aware of her actions, screaming at herself to stop acting like a horny, stupid fool, but unable to make herself stop.
Mentally lecturing herself to not approach, her feet moved of their own accord, taking her nubile, shapely body toward the sexiest, most pussy-drenching man that she’d ever seen. The eternal clash between the spirit and mind, body and heart, is a battlefield wrought with self-conflicting peril. Tori’s cynical mind bellowed at her, telling her to leave him be, as any man that looked like that was either a narcissistic ego-maniac, taken, or not into women. Still, her footfalls propelled her forward. Her heart sang that it was love at first sight, all while her more mature self laughed at her romantic childishness.
Another, darker portion of her psyche shrieked terrified warnings. Tori was, according to her inner demons, voluntarily giving up her advantage and power by presenting herself to this charming man who seemed to glow with sensual power. Pussy Power be damned—she was smitten. Nonetheless, her mind in a dreamlike trance, her body controlled by desire, she approached him from the side, nearly stalking him as if she were a predator readying her fatal pounce.
It was then as if he could see behind his back, as she was approaching him tangentially, nervously, that he turned his head to face her. She’d seen his face, although her eyes couldn’t stop roaming over his sexy, muscular body, but she hadn’t been subjected to the dazzling, hypnotic allure of his crooked, roguish smile.
Tori had participated in some amazing sex in her life, the kind of sex that leaves one sighing in delight, the endorphins still coursing through her soul. She’d enjoyed extended foreplay where her body melted into a furious bonfire of lusty pleasure. His quick, appraising, and comprehending smile made those blissful, sensual memories pale in comparison. Somehow, he had wordlessly, instantly projected his song of seduction, a personal symphony of bliss and desire, into her heart, mind, and soul. Its rhythm and tempo matched her thundering pulse, and the portents it promised caressed her inner essence.
How one reacts to a stranger’s approach conveys an infinite amount of information about the person. Poise, body language, posture, facial expressions, and physiological responses communicate the person’s ego, confidence, social adeptness, and whether the person is a threat or feels uneasy are all communicated, although we instinctively evaluate all of this, instantly. Tori was used to being leered at, drooled over, and objectified, which is something all attractive women, especially if they’re blondes, have to endure. She was not, however, even remotely prepared for the way his mirth-filled, handsomely chiseled face and radiant, gleaming smile affected her.
His eyes seemed brilliant from a distance, but, when he raised his eyes to meet her sheepish face, it was as if Tori’s very soul exploded in rapture. Hazel, the color that is a mixture of other hues, relegated to being solely used to describe indescribable eyes, would be the layperson’s term, but the word served no justice to the alluring, hypnotic intensity of his orbs. A mixture of gray, steel blue, light umber, and glittering, green flecks. His eyes shot out radiant beams of erotic, soul-absorbing intensity; his gaze, in a microsecond, shredded her personality into minuscule shards, and he absorbed them all, as if he could see into her heart, knowing her true drive and desires, and loved what he encountered.
The poetry of his soul melded with hers, and, for a brief moment, just from meeting eyes, she felt weightless, desired, appreciated, and understood. Tori’s knees lost their ability to hold her upright, and she felt erotic heat, the most intense arousal she’d ever known, scorching her innards. His stare grabbed her by the heartstrings, tugged at her mind, pulling her into the protective shroud of his powerful, pussy-drenching presence, and caressed her emotions, heightening them into a needy state of obsessive addiction.
As her soul screamed in ecstatic rapture, his roguish grin, conveying confidence, mirth, strength of character, and naughty, torrid sensuality, sent waves of vibrating bliss cascading over her flesh. Victoria could only toss her long mane back, exposing a shoulder and, hopefully, making her breasts jiggle enticingly, as a sensation similar to but more intense than most of the orgasms she’d had in her life ambushed her body. His expression, one of lusty invitation coupled with respect and understanding, alerted her that he instinctively knew everything about her. It was as if they were connected on some primal, cosmic level, the two of them kindred spirits, meeting for the first time but immediately recognizing that their fates were intertwined.
Less than one Eros-dripping, thundering heartbeat had passed, and Tori’s reality was upended, countering everything she knew about romance, seduction, and even herself. Rather than mentally debating if he was her type, somebody she might be interested in, or an absolute creep—her usual tack—the woman’s brain, forgetting her collegiate education and sense of poised self-control, willfully threw herself at Glevin, her desirous needs possessing her college-educated brain, taking control of her body and speech.
“Um, what are you drinking, and are you going to order me one?” Tori’s mouth erupted, stammers and the tonality of complete embarrassment peppering her ill-conceived opening volley.
Fucking moron! Tori men tall chastised herself. She knew that she was physically attractive. Usually, that was enough to make the men flock to her. This time, though, the man didn’t respond as he should have. Instead, staring with his mouth agape, enthralled and mesmerized by her sexy body, amazing, firm ass, and nearly perfect features, his roguish smile widened into one of sincere mirth, as if he were delighted with her faux pas but unwilling to humiliate her by acknowledging her social blundering.
His head tilted to one side, ever so slightly, as his gaze roamed over her, scanning her from head to toe and back up, once more. That little movement, his neck barely slanting, had a devastating, visual effect on Victoria. Most women aren’t immediately turned on by seeing something erotic or arousing unless they’re already in the mood. While her mind denied it, as the implications that this amazing, charismatic man hadn’t uttered a single syllable, and he’d already enslaved her were just too unsettling, her heart knew it was true. Her soul sang over his attention, and his intense and total focus was on her.
Still, the overall gesture and following brazen, sexual appraisal, stunned her into heated, lust-filled confusion. The way his long hair waved in the ether, so sexy and shiny, reminded her of a field of grain billowing slowly in a Summer breeze. The way his eyes, as she noted how they burned with a unique sexuality, openly feasted on her, no creepiness or aggression, just appreciation, felt like erotic, vibrating fingers expertly manipulating her libido to the bursting point. In the few milliseconds his wanton, visual appraisal consumed, Tori realized that he was out of her league, but she still hoped that he wouldn’t reject her.