For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost. For want of the key, the doors remained locked.
Try as I might, on the following day, the next, and the next, until the days became weeks, book two of Aunt Grace’s grimoire was pure gibberish. The cosmic carrot dangled before me, enticing me towards more power, while the cosmic gorilla foiled every effort to unlock more secrets. It’s not that the prior weeks had been unkind; it was that feeling so close to true power, true bliss, after a lifetime of being ignored, was maddening. Still, I pressed on. My studies bore fruit, giving me something resembling recognition over what I could already do.
My previous ritual of masturbation and wallowing in despair was replaced with a new daily ritual, one of enjoyment, luxury, and solace. I had thought that I sought peace and solitude; joyful chaos was superior. Rather than masturbate all day, every day, because I had nothing else, my nude, ritualized masturbation grounded me, focused my energies, and brought me closer to the divine. Constantly promising myself that I would learn all of the first grimoire, then attempt to decode the Witches’ Cypher of the second book, I only revisited the choice sections I had earmarked earlier.
I had no idea how Aunt Grace had discovered these secrets; her entire life had revolved around the occult. The sum of her knowledge was laid out before me, the sole beneficiary of her wisdom and techniques. My power seemed to attract others of like mind as well as those wishing to prostrate themselves before me. Before I had the grimoire, my only real exposure to magick had been Aunt Grace. Now it was seemingly everywhere, permeating my entire life.
My witch-sight improved exponentially, fueled by the constant, aching desire of my sex. I developed a keen eye for the dance of the universe, the balance of nature, and the energies that emanate from all things, living or inanimate. It was a combination of Kirlian sight, empathy, and intuition. The half-sensed, half-seen became the seen and sensed. This newfound ability, once harnessed, allowed me to turn the same keening inward. It was through this extended experimentation that I, joined with the Goddess, Aphrodite, managed to “see” my powers as tangible, visible entities within the core of my soul.
Ethereal will-o’-the-wisps of globe-like droplets of power, tethered by glowing strings of energy, could be seen, touched, within the endless universe of myself, then finally persuaded, not commanded, to leave my physical being. As Aunt Grace had mentioned in her final letter, it took perfect faith and perfect acceptance. Laying one’s soul bare, at will, to the forces of the cosmos, was a task easier said than done.
More often than not, my ability to guide and grasp my powers failed. Now and then I would have some success. Those successes were mild, barely notable over the natural aura of sexual sensuality I seemed to always project. Still, progress, no matter how insignificant, was progress. I could sense my powers; simply not persuade them to do my bidding.
I slowly discovered that with the lusty powers of the goddess pumping through my veins I had become attuned to the natural creatures of this plane. Trees spoke to me, waving their branches in greeting, signaling things that were beyond mortal perception. The creatures of the night made their music, growing more excited as I neared. The creatures of the day, from gentle to apex predator, were my wildling companions. They ate from my hand, nuzzled me with affection, and brought me offerings from the wilds surrounding the estate. Like my powers, I did not command; I befriended and aided them—a symbiotic relationship.
My sultry, passionate powers of desire waxed and waned, following the phases of the moon, the intensity of my endeavors. Discovering that man-made fabrics and artificial materials both reduced and impeded the flow of my energies, I replaced my incinerated wardrobe with cotton, silks, and other natural fabrics. Tight clothing also inhibited; my tastes evolved into flowing, loose clothing, unburdened by restrictive, torturous undergarments. The more natural skin I exposed, the easier and stronger the flow of my power. I became the epitome of witchy dress, my outer shell echoing my inner self.
The tower of my expansive new home, a cottage only in name, was solely accessed by the spiral stairs. In that high, round chamber I would study, masturbate, and focus myself, as well as my power. It was, the best of times and the worst of times. True, real, potent power lay just beyond my grasp. Still, the second book refused to be translated.
Slowly but steadily my powers grew in magnitude over the weeks. Finding willing souls to replenish or enhance my energies was easy. Restaurants, a bar, the mall, campus, were all prime hunting grounds. I spread love, passion, desire, and sex wherever I went. Few, if any, had the mettle to resist the goddess of desire made flesh, her instrument of carnal pleasure in the mortal world. I could maintain my power through ritual, surrendering to the goddess; the energies of others increased my powers slightly.
“Lilith” had become a campus rallying cry, spreading like wildfire. A line-art rendition of me, exaggerated into torrid sex appeal, could be seen on posters, buttons, and shirts. Red-dyed hair became the new rage; “not our equal” the new mantra. When I needed a power boost, or one of the ego, I’d venture to campus and entice one of “my” acolytes, or two, or three. The more I could drink of at once, the more my powers grew, the higher the volume of my increased capacity.
Nearly everywhere I went I would entice others into lusty pleasures, fill myself with their essence, grow in power. Nearly everywhere. Almost everyone was affected by my goddess-given feminine wiles, my seductive aura overpowering them. Almost everyone.
Almost everywhere except my home, almost everyone except for Casper Montague. Casper was not only my landlord; he was also the source of my joyful chaos.
Calling professor Montague an eccentric naturist is like calling Kilimanjaro a hill. His morning ritual consisted of cavorting about nude, a combination of martial arts kata and frenzied free-form dancing, to Here Come the King by Dirty Shirley. His daily routine consisted of restoring Langston estate, teaching, research, and writing. His evenings consisted of wild parties, worthy of legend, debauchery, every sin imaginable, and endless occult rituals coupled with pagan ceremonies of every ilk. He was Dionysus, the Horned God of the hunt, to my Aphrodite. He was also immune to my charms.
I immediately grew used to his outlandish behavior; we became comfortable with each other, kindred spirits, and fast friends. I had a standing invitation into his home, his endless parties, and his rituals. We even rode his horses together, much to my delight. His black stallion, Prince Humperdinck, was majestic and spirited; his white mare, Princess Buttercup, was sweet and filled with primal life. He was my first friend since Aunt Grace. His “occult research club” was cut of the same cloth. They attacked their occult research with fanatical fervor, partied with the same devotion.
I was crestfallen when Casper told me that he had to leave for about a week. After cooking a late-night meal together, outdoors, wrapped in the arms of Mother Nature, over an open fire, Casper told me that he was headed to Salem to speak at a convention, sign books, and hopefully to sell one or two. His odd, always-worn bracelet of multi-colored, polished stones glimmered mysteriously in the firelight. Reminding me that his “club” would be by on Friday to conduct a ritual ceremony, an attempt at drawing down the gods, he bade me farewell. I missed him before his gleaming Porsche disappeared in the distance.
Three days of peace, quiet, and solace followed his departure. I fed and played with the horses, fed and played with myself. The fauna kept me company, Casper’s green herbs and mushrooms, cultivated behind the stables, kept me amused. My quest for control moved forward, the final destination receding further with every step. Friday arrived; deeply engrossed in my ritual, I barely noticed the twenty or so people gathered outside.
As the sun descended, their noise ascended. One would think that such intrusions into one’s quiet enjoyment would be unwelcome. I didn’t mind. My soul had been banging against some cosmic wall, further frustrating my efforts. Surrendering all control in order to control is a difficult spiritual lesson. Wondering about the ritual just yards away then trying to force relaxation, I could hear the occasional chant. I vaguely heard the droning beats of the ritual drums, sporadic lilting wails.
Giving in to curiosity and procrastination, I quickly pulled on a thin, all-white, patchwork skirt, so thin that the silhouette of my body could be seen in dim lighting, all my charms exposed if even a single watt of luminescence was about. A matching white, hemp, crocheted top, little more than a loose, cropped tank, holes from the weave exposing the pink of my nipples, oversized armholes exposing my boobs, was thrown over my nude torso. A lithe, metal-link belt, of hand-hammered copper, glinted in the moonlight as I made for my door. Quickly wound to loosely frame my hips, I went gently into that good night, all fire-hair, gypsy cloth, and ghostly white.
Smiling in greeting, I entered their sacred circle, accepting their libations of musty mushroom-infused wine and surprisingly smooth “sacred” smoke, harvested from behind the stables. All were arrayed around a small, intense, crackling bonfire, built up high, in the center of their ritual circle. Water vessels were nearby, ready to contain the flames if the fire elementals decided to stroll about the grounds. A dozen or so women, youthful coeds—probably truly wanting to get under Casper the ghost’s sheet more than unlock the secrets of the cosmos—danced around the fire to the ritual drums, chanting. Eight men, ranging from college-age to their forties, either danced or manned the majority of the instruments. One woman, slightly older looking, was nude except for an open white robe. She wore a crown of antlers, a Gardnerian adornment. She was invoking the goddess, begging Her to manifest before them.
“Your ritual worked, I have arrived,” was my lone thought.
Not joining in the pagan maypole fire-dance, I walked slowly, just outside of the ring of trancing dancers, my circling movement counter to theirs. The “bum-ba-dum, ba-bum-da-dum” of the drums was intoxicating; the energy was pulsing through the air. I didn’t walk through the night air; I strode through a heavy fog of primal, instinctive, magickal energy. I could feel it, taste it, see it radiating off of the people, shooting into the heavens in an unfocused pillar. It was sexual, it was life, it was creation; they had raised the power, they just lacked a lens, lacked focus. I was both.
Feeling the primitive, primal, tribal beat possess me, I stopped my counter-pacing after two circuits around the fire. Interposed between the percussionists and writhing women, dancing to raise power, I surveyed the scene. My consciousness melded with my primal self, my divine essence conquering my surface mind.
Raising my arms, a wicked, feline smile on my lips, I thrust out my chest, seeing my always-taut nipples poke through the loosely woven macramé of my top. Hips bucking to the strong drum beats, I danced in place, humping the air, writhing in sexual ecstasy.
The fire’s glow turned my translucent skirt diaphanous; it drew attention to my nude flesh rather than cover it. Eyes closed, head raised to the night sky, I could feel the power circulating, hot currents of sexuality, warm currents of life, burning currents of needy desire.
In an impassioned gasp, I could sense, feel, even taste the powers they had raised enter me. In that single breath of magick, I had absorbed more energy, more lust, more power than all of my previous lust-vampirism combined. My body glowed with red-hot primal instinct, my pussy gushed a cloudburst of sex; my hips undulated with burning heat.
One of the dancers broke from the circle, moving towards me. My breasts heaving noticeably, matching my breathing, she approached me, dancing to the primitive, sacred beats. Eyes locked, hands extended towards each other, arms intertwined then groping, our lips met in a lusty, wet, passionate kiss.
Unbidden, seen with only my witch-keening, my energy, overloading my mortal body, shot into her. She moaned into my mouth. Her body shook with rapture; she threw herself to the ground before me. Moaning and writhing in passion, her hands tore at her clothes as she caressed herself to the rhythm of the drummers. Her passion flowed back into me, threatening to make me explode in carnal lust, sheer pleasure, and explosive, divine, power.
One by one, the others followed her actions, either drawn to me or succumbing to my power with a glance, a stare, a nod. A dozen women lay at my feet, bodies intertwined. Clothes were rented or discarded. Lips locked in passion, fingers probing every orifice, sex of every kind began. Moans, in tandem with the beating drums, rose into the night. Orgasms were legion; heads lapped at soaked cunts, breasts were thrust into eager mouths.
The orgy at my feet powered me into overdrive. I danced in place, feeling the power increase my capacities tenfold, exponentially. As the pleasure overwhelmed me, I increased the tempo of my hips, the sway of my body. I didn’t need to command my power, only send it outwards. I could feel what they felt, experience their combined pleasures.
Quickly glancing towards the musicians, I could feel the warmth of my power, passionate purple, stimulating reds, and smoky specks of raw energy, envelop them. Their drumming continued increasing in speed and intensity until it was a lust-fueled frenzy, the beats coming staccato, rapid, and hard.
As my passions overtook me, they abandoned their instruments and waded into the femme-orgy, wielding new instruments borne of hard flesh. Every orgasm on the ground caused a spiritual one within me. Each of my bursts of pleasure heightened theirs. I was overflowing with raw, sensual power, my lust out of control, making those around me lose control; my body racked and convulsed with passion. I knew delights no mortal should ever experience, lest they find the rest of existence despairingly mundane.
All the power they had released fed me, enhanced me, drove my divine evolution. I communed with the goddess, sacrificed their energy and souls. My flesh was the vessel, the lens, the altar. Screaming, moaning, and writhing beside the fire, my body gave all of itself to them, the entranced mortals; physical release, orgasms beyond comprehension, was my fleshy reward.
They feasted upon me, pleased me, took pleasure in my delight, and served me just as avidly as I did them. The carnal kingdom of Aphrodite had manifested itself on earth, responsive to my will. The pulsing, glowing pillar of energy had long ago ceased its impotent eruption towards the sky. It had curved, tilted, and lowered itself through me; it permeated and filled me.
With my dripping, sexed-up core as ground zero, the excess energy, that which my mortal shell could not absorb, blasted itself in an explosion of lust, sex, passion, and fury. Twenty pairs of hands, dozens of breasts, pussies, and hard throbbing cocks pleased me simultaneously.
As instantly and effortlessly as it had begun, it ceased. A score of nude bodies, moaning and stretching in the afterglow, lay on the ground. I was covered in sex juice, cum, sweat, and dirt. I had no idea of exactly when or how, but my clothes were neatly folded just behind where I lay. I didn’t even recall lying down. Semen dripped out of my well-used pussy, encrusted my chin, and oozed from my harshly used ass. I barely even realized that I had been getting fucked.
The energy still surged through me, a violent tempest threatening to overwhelm, take control.