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. 

Grabbing my clothes, I strode outside their circle. The power continued pulsing through me, visible by other means than mere mortal sight. I took a few paces towards my home and turned to take in the scene I had just abandoned. I sensed their peace, their joy, their pleasure at having received divine pleasure. My newly-increased power demanded to unleash itself.

Concentrating briefly, I summoned my powers, directed them towards the orgy of flesh, and caused the lust, passion, and horny sexual desire to resume. My powers cooperated, raining down upon the prone bodies. The fire surged to new heights; their moans rose higher; their physical worship respawned with greater need, more energy, and even more debauchery. I turned on my heel, a satisfied grin upon my lips. I had finally succeeded in controlling my first primary power. All I had needed was more energy, enough to work with.

Back inside, the tower window open before me, I siphoned their energies, using them to travel across the universe to Aphrodite. There I gave her my worship, my power, my energy; there she refilled my empty vessel with something purer, more potent, more powerful. Returning to the lower planes, I practiced, honing control over my lusty powers.

Now I could command my powers. Yes, I was clumsy, as anyone would be at first, but I could do it! I gave a ritual of thanks, there on the window sill, watching the orgy my divine magick had inspired. They had wanted their goddess to come, so cum I did, continually, until I grew tired of sending out divine lust to implant actions into their minds. My sexual puppeteering done, I sought my bed and drifted off into a dream-filled slumber. My metaphysical training wheels had been cast aside; I was now in control.

Arising with the sun, the warmth of the dawn warming my pussy, I gave my morning worship surrounded by deer and rabbits. Doves circled my head; a fox dropped a flower near me before scurrying off. My power was now tangible, solid, visible to my inner eye. Knowing that I could manifest my will through my powers meant that it would be easier the next time, easier still afterwards.

It was now time to test my limits. The worshipers of the previous night had long ago departed. I spent the day tending to Montague’s illicit crops, his horses, even riding Princess Buttercup throughout the estate, nude all the while.  

As night fell, witchy hair, exaggerated lips, and dark eyes were my armor. A carefully chosen cotton micro dress of pale green, toga-like, loose, one that drew eyes and attention to my figure, was my shield. I headed towards campus in the midnight air. It was time to test my powers, to discover their limits. I had the perfect place in mind.

My new self-mastery made the journey easy for me. No need to call upon the divine when one’s own mortal vessel is overflowing with power. In response to a malicious driver in the rearview mirror, the tailgating car behind me suddenly slowed, its tire newly-blown, obeying my will. That couple walking the street beside me, as I rest at a stoplight, became enraptured in physically feasting upon each other’s bodies as my lust penetrated them with a simple stare.

I now knew the secret. Feeding myself will sustain me, but feeding the masses was true power. I could will them to do my lusty bidding, their passion enslaving them to me. My stalwart companion through the years, Captain Flash Rogers, sustained my mortal body, its life-giving Pez my new Ambrosia. Aphrodite’s power fueled my soul, Pez power fueled my body.

Pulling into the lot of Club Noire, a faux Goth club for the mild raver types on campus, I pulled into a parking space that the Goddess had ordained would be vacant. Walking past the line of freshmen awaiting entry, I confronted the bouncer, a burly, muscular young man whose clothing and face were covered in metal spikes and studs.

“I need to see your identification, ma’am,” he said. The swell of his pants and lecherous leer told me that he was under my spell.

“You don’t need to see my identification,” I said to him calmly.

“We don’t need to see her identification,” he repeated blankly to his co-doorman.

“She can go about her business,” I intoned, gently.

“She can go about her business.”

“Come on in, please,” I whispered to him.

“Please come in,” he smiled, parting the black velvet curtains for me.

“Oh my god! It’s Lilith!” I heard as I entered.

I turned and smiled at her, a young punked-up woman, looking hard, harsh, and edgy, drink in hand. I flashed her the “devil horns”, which is truly a sign of protection, warding off evil.

Little more than a small bar with a small dance floor, Club Noir was painted in matte black with neon, spray-painted graffiti on the walls. Dim lighting gave one just enough illumination to not careen into the various rickety tables and dingy chairs strewn about. Black lighting gave everything an eerie glow. My pale skin glowed a luminescent blue under the lighting; my freckles stood out like stark, black dots. A low ceiling, the ornate, antique tiles painted black, gave the place a cellar-like feel.

Various people were milling about, dancing, posing, posturing. Some were arrayed in spikes and leather, giving in to the faux-goth atmosphere; others were decked out in campus-club attire, short, tight dresses, frat t-shirts, and jeans. In a previous incarnation, mousy Krys would have felt out of place. Aphrodite-kissed goddess Krys smiled at her own regal poise as she caught her reflection in the dingy, darkened mirror behind the bar.

A lusty stare, a mental command, quickly drew the bartender away from her customers and her gaze immediately flew to me. She sidled up against the black plywood bar, her anarchy t-shirt and skull-adorned tights glowing in the black-light haze.

“Drinks are on me tonight, gorgeous,” she said. “I’m Mara. If you want anything, anything at all,” lust radiated from her eyes, “just grab me, I’ll gladly serve you.”

“How sweet,” I said to her, just barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding music.

I allowed my voice to drip with suggestive sensuality. It cut through the din like magic. “Give me something that will get my juices flowing.”

Dramatically bending and stretching for my pleasure, she plopped a wide-brimmed glass on the bar before me, pouring in a sickly green liquid that smelled of dirt, herbs, and licorice. Placing a slotted spoon of questionable cleanliness over the glass, she set a large sugar mold, a skull, on top of the spoon and then slowly poured in a clear liquid. Water, I assumed. Her eyes were fixated on my face, my mostly-revealed cleavage. As the sugar water poured into the green, the entire drink turned puss-white, like curdled milk. She stirred it with a knurled glass rod, then raised the phallic stirrer to her lips and tongued off the residue.

“Absinthe,” she said, her voice husky.

“Makes the heart grow fonder,” I chortled out.

I accepted the drink and took a sip. It was potent, harsh, bitter, sweet, bittersweet, and it pulsed with unique energy. I made it less than two steps towards the stage before I felt the heat of her stare on my ass. Head turning demurely, a mischievous smile promising delights of the soul on my lips, I caught her stare with my eyes.

I flipped up my skirt, ever so briefly, showing her my smooth skin, the roundness of cheek, and openness to her lusty desires. I gave her a sultry wink, licked my lips in invitation. She was of medium height, of stocky build in the way that is sexy rather than offsetting, and had a youthful glow of vitality about her. Her breasts were large, displayed nicely, and her tights showed muscular legs beneath the clingy fabric. Her multi-colored aura matched her hair, showing me energy, enthusiasm, and desire to please.  

“We have a celebrity in our midst,” the DJ announced as he cut the throbbing music.  “Lilith!” he pointed towards me. “Come up on stage, Lilith, lay some wisdom on us.”

“I love you,” was shrieked by a female in the tiny crowd. “Men are not our equal!”

“Lilith, Lilith, Lilith,” the chant began, taken up by all. The sexy bartender jumped up and down, clapping, screaming my uninvited nickname. Her long hair bounced along with her impressive breasts; it was hypnotic, glowing in the black lighting.

Taking the DJ’s hand, noting his erection through his skinny jeans, I climbed the single step onto the stage. I could feel the heat of the stage lights on my bare skin, knowing that all could see my charms.

“Does Lilith have a last name?” The DJ asked, smiling at me as he thrust the worn, dented microphone towards my face.

“Aphrodite.” My voice flowed with sex. It wasn’t sensual; it was not suggestive. It sounded like sex, rapture, moans of orgasmic bliss. “Lilith Aphrodite.”

The rowdy people watched me, enthralled. I could feel my energy flowing outwards, wrapping them in my magick, goddess-bestowed lust. The response was almost immediate this time. My power enchanted them into horny oblivion. Their energies fed me, made me feel their rapture.

“What truth and wisdom do you have for us here, Lilith Aphrodite?” the DJ asked me. His eyes glistened with lust; his body signaled physical need.

I quaffed my drink, feeling the bitter licorice-burn alter my consciousness. “Dance with me!” 

I handed the microphone back to the DJ. He bowed his mohawked, scruffy-bearded head to me. 

“Play something with a strong beat. I need it hard, deep, and slow.” His expressions showed understanding that I wasn’t talking about music.

The spotlight, all eyes, upon me, I glanced towards the DJ. At a sensual nod, he began his music. A hard, deep bass began thumping 1-2-3-&-4, followed by shrill guitars. I pumped my hips to the beat, swayed my swollen breasts to the melody. My short dress exposed my thighs; my wetness glistened, glowing ultraviolet in the black light.

My energies consumed me, my passions ignited. Feeling the overwhelming need for sexual release overtake me, I surrendered all of myself to the music, to the pulsating desire that surged through my core. My soul escaped my body, borrowing the formless energy emanating from me as its vessel. Wafting outwards, through the bar, my empowered soul permeated first one, then another, enchanting them with the flames of arousal.

As the thrumming, driving beat of the music vibrated through the air, my Aphrodite-spawned passion filled them all with flaming desire. Scores of bodies writhed together, undressed each other, copulating before me in worship. Women gave pleasure to each other, men to women, men to each other. Rutting, moaning, sighing, and tangled masses of limbs covered every square inch of Club Noir. I conducted a symphony of passion, they were my orchestra.

Glancing to the DJ, he immediately obeyed my consuming need and approached. Kneeling on the floor, I beckoned him to me. The sexual energy was all-consuming, all-powerful. I could see it flowing about the dark chamber, glowing of its own accord, no black lights needed. It flowed into me, out of me, to the rhythm of the goth-punk music.

Forcefully pulling his jeans down, I drooled over his cock and plunged my head over the shaft. His moans were a mixture of worship and pleasure as I sank my entire mouth over his member, gag reflex a long-forgotten memory. Thrusting my head to the beat, I brought him to the brink of release and laid back on the small stage, taking in the Roman orgy before me.

Lust, passion, glory, and power filled me. “Fuck me! Release your seed into me!” I commanded, my voice awash with passion, my desire dripping from my words and thighs. He plunged into me, his eyes almost vacant, lost in the throes of pleasure.

“Aaaagh!” I screamed out in pleasure, my hips slamming up to meet every thrust. My power flowed outwards in bright rays of lust, spurring the others towards more pleasures, infinite delights. Cocks, asses, tits, cunts, and scenes of sex filled my eyes; the scents of cum, juices, and sweat filled my nostrils. My humping impalement on his sex lanced through my body, penetrated my soul.

My immortal essence drifted through the room, feeling the pleasures of others, magickally melding my passion-borne desires into actions. The need to see the redhead orgasm resulted in her flailing about, her shaking thighs locking with crushing pressure on her lover’s head. The overwhelming urge to see the muscular man, his leather pants discarded, ejaculate resulted in him pulling out of his lover’s ass and shooting porn-worthy spurting streams onto his partner’s back as he shouted to the gods.

My worshiper, the Mohawk-haired DJ, sensed my need for him to release his power into me. 

His semen shot through me like jets of fire, triggering my own frenzied release. My ecstatic orgasm released gallons of divine fluid out of my body, immeasurable amounts of power. My pleasure ignited theirs, driving the masses into an orgy of release. This new boost had me glowing with purple, orange, red, and blue sensual fires. I could feel it threatening to burst my veins, feel my ability to control it, feel the eyes of the bartender.

Mara had climbed to the top of the bar, her breasts exposed, one hand a blur beneath the skin-tight fabric of her tights. Her other hand alternated between caressing her body and desperately pulling on her nipples. Pushing the DJ aside, I descended the single step down to the dance floor.  

“I bless you all,” I told them, willing them to continue, to further feed me their sacred, lust-filled power. I glanced at the bartender; she jumped off the bar top as if summoned. I beckoned her, both arms extended, drew her into my grasp. Licking her sweet arousal from her fingers, I wrapped my arm around her and guided her out the door.

Peeling off my soiled, sweat-soaked, cum-covered dress as soon as my body felt the cool night air, I walked, nude, to my car, soaking in the horny energies of the admirers on the street. I giggled as I heard a loud car horn, then the distinct popping sounds of metal upon metal that could only be a car accident.

Unlocking my car, bidding her to take the passenger seat, I sped towards home. The journey home was spent with her hands, fingers, and lips, worshiping me. Her attentions kept my energy at peak, my arousal boiling over. I needed more.

On the grounds of Langston estate, I feasted upon her; she was a willing sacrifice to feed my powers. Tongues and fingers between legs; our hands exploring each other, our dripping cunts pressed against each other, lips kissing, orgasms endlessly causing each other’s, I fed upon her power until she was drained, then refilled her with my essence. I gave as much as I took, gave more to Aphrodite.  

I took her number in case I needed to be worshiped once more and sent her on her way. Discarding my dress, I greeted the creatures of the night, then retired to my witch’s tower for worship, more orgasms, and finally, blessed control over my powers. Now a full vessel, filled with power, filled with cum, I could persuade my goddess-given talents to do as I desired. 

Fingering myself into oblivion, until calmness overtook me, I finally fell into a deep slumber.

Once more I traveled across space and time, to the kingdom of Aphrodite. There I sacrificed all of my raw energy, the unbridled passion I had bestowed upon others. There she refilled my drained vessel with pure, more potent powers, her favor, and pleasures unknown to mere mortals.

My fealty to her was blessed with a single extended orgasm that tore my soul into atoms, reconstituting itself as a healthier, stronger, more sexual version of my former self. Although separated by the infinity of material existence, I could feel my body heal itself into the glowing vibrancy of youth. Shot back into the mortal universe with the coming of the sun, I fingered myself once more, screaming in passion, as the rays caressed my body. I had finally gained full control, full power.