What shall it profit a witch, if she shall gain the whole world and lose her soul? For me, the answer is “chained nude to a cross, covered in blood, about to be sacrificed in an occult ritual.” The obvious problem with power is that it makes one powerful. Being powerful leads one directly into temptation, becomes a quest for even greater power. There are those that can accept the mantle of power with grace and there are those that epitomize the saying “power corrupts.” I was definitely the latter. Had it not been for Casper Montague and his evil occultist associates I would have fallen victim to my hubris.
I could easily justify my behavior over the following weeks, but knowing why something is doesn’t change the fact that it is. Cold, callous, impersonal, condescending—all of those words describe the person I had become. Mere mortals were not my equal; I held myself above them, glowering at them with disdain. Except for Casper, whom I viewed as a friend, my only friend, everyone else existed merely to feed my energy, increase my power, and to keep the fires of lusty passion burning. Selfish solipsism and taking were my daily fare.
Barely dressed, my nubile, passion-filled body on display, I’d crawl Club Noir, the streets, campus, anywhere, finding wanton sacrifices to fuel my lusty demands. The rationalization that I was giving them pleasures of the flesh beyond mortal experience allowed me to turn a blind eye to the fact that I was using them for my own ends. People had become my prey, my desire-driven sustenance. I’d use them, then discard them. Restraint, compassion, and empathy quickly became distant memories. Just as timid, mousy Krys had died in the fire, Goddess-kissed Krys surrendered her will to Lilith Aphrodite.
As my powers increased, my hunger for more increased exponentially. The discovery that I could, sometimes, tether lust and passion to one’s will, persuading them to say or do what I desired, overjoyed me. Stumbling upon the fact that I could charge objects with my lusty desires was quite serendipitous. Love potions did, indeed, exist. Both of these abilities drained me nearly empty of energy. It mattered not; others were more than willing to prostrate themselves before me and fill me with their cum, their tongues, their fingers.
Aunt Grace’s grimoires lay forgotten, collecting dust in my tower. I was a demigoddess of lust, forged anew in diving fires of horny lust, freed on this mortal plane to grow in power by feeding on the passions of others. In return, I’d reward them with pleasures untold. I hoarded power; I bestowed my gifts to the masses; I became an icy bitch. Had it not been for Casper’s inadvertent intervention I would have never been able to regain control.
Three weeks after I discovered how to control my powers at the ritual, a very animated and excited Casper began interrogating me about my participation. Quickly growing wary, my goddess-given Spider Senses tingling, I attempted to deny or minimize my actions.
“Did you attend the ritual while I was in Salem?” he asked me over a fine dinner and a glass of centuries-old Massougnes cognac.
“I dropped by, briefly,” I lied to him. “Ritual drums, chanting, the usual. I drank some of your mushroom wine and smoked a little, danced around the fire a bit, then went back inside.”
“You didn’t see anything unusual?” his tone was accusatory; it sounded like he already knew.
I shook my head negatively.
“You have to see this!” Casper exclaimed with giddy excitement. “Follow me!”
I hastened to follow. Jogging to keep up with his break-neck pace, I followed him through the ornate sliding doors that led to his private study. A large television screen, blue screen glowing, dominated one wall. Books covered the remaining walls. A very small section contained copies of his books with a picture of himself leaning against them. The picture had devil horns, a goatee, and nerd-glasses scribbled over his face in black marker. His “desk” was nothing more than a large sheet of plywood resting upon mismatched sawhorses, littered with food containers, hand-written notes stained and smudged with ash, and books and scrolls of every kind. A laptop sat precariously perched upon a ream of mangled papers in front of his chair. His chair was a velvet-padded, ornately-carve armchair that looked as if it were rescued from the city dump.
“Watch this,” he said plucking a battered remote control from some unseen spot on his chaotic desk, pointing it towards the glowing screen. A night-vision scene showed on the TV, a ritual…that ritual. I was filled with foreboding dread. While Professor Montague knew I studied witchcraft, I had tried to keep my true essence secret from him. His knowing would complicate the only friendship I enjoyed.
Picking up a length of ornate trim from the floor he gestured at the screen, using it as a pointer. His tone settled into “lecturing professor mode.” Pointing and narrating, he described the events that were about to unfold. I knew what I was about to see. From the angle of the shot, it appeared as if I would soon enter from stage right and start an orgy.
“Here we have a normal ritual in progress.” He paused and pointed to the right. "Soon you’ll see Tim, David, and Manuel put down their instruments and welcome the woman into the circle.”
My heart jumped up into my esophagus; I could barely breathe. The night-vision, all blacks, whites, and greens helped to obfuscate my features, but it was me entering the shot. The contours of my nude body could easily be seen beneath my thin skirt; my plump, perky breasts bounced slightly with each step, my nipples prominently exposing themselves through my macramé top. I saw myself accept the psilocybin wine tincture, take a deep, long toke on the pipe. I looked like sultry sex on legs, pure passion, carnal lust.
Casper continued. “Now…wait for it…she enters the circle and POW!”
As soon as my sultry, witchy figure took a step into their sacred ritual circle, the audio degraded into interference and buzzing static. My body seemed to become enveloped in a green, glowing corona of pulsating light, and the video began showing bits of static on the screen.
“She begins walking away from the camera…then the picture goes haywire.”
The bits of static interference grew into light-falling snow of whitish flecks, cascading on the screen. Soon it became a blizzard that totally covered the screen. I breathed a sigh of relief. My secret was safe from Casper.
“For three hours, this pretty much all we have,” he exclaimed with giddy excitement.
“Pretty much?” I asked.
“We have the occasional weird image emerge from the static, like a double exposure, then just fade away. Makes no sense. Look!”
He paused the video, hit a random button on the remote, and hurriedly pushed a pile of notes off his desk as he swung his laptop around. The large TV showed his computer screen. A few clicks and a single, delighted laugh later I saw a static-corrupted image of three women lying on their backs, masturbating with roses. Hitting a button on his computer so hard that I thought he’d break the keyboard, the image changed to a sexy woman with black hair, covered in tattoos, stabbing a man with a dagger.
Another image showed doves flying through the static, another a stately woman wearing an olive laurel crown, sitting on a carved stone throne. Sex scenes borne of pornographic fantasies and nightmares followed. The final image showed me, on my back, a cock in each hand, a woman between my legs, lapping at my cunt. I was covered in jizz.
“And that’s the second-best shot I have of her but still no face. Do you know who everybody says she is?” Montague’s tone was one of elated victory.
“Who…” I started innocently. I was going to add “me?” but his enthusiasm cut me off.
“The Goddess!” he jumped with excitement. “I’ve interviewed everyone but you, at least twice! They all say that it was another typical ritual and then the goddess appeared to them, personally, filled them with lust, and fucked their brains out!”
I searched for words; he continued. “Everyone describes her differently, according to their own ideas of perfect sexual beauty. Nobody recalls her coming or going, just that she appeared and seduced them into pure bliss! The best shot I have of her is when she leaves.”
He slammed the lid of his laptop closed with a thunk, began fast-forwarding through the snowy static. “Ah….here.”
I watched in horror, then relief, as I was shown leaving the circle. The static subsided to minimal interference as my nude body, clutching my clothes in one hand, left. I know what my ass looks like; there it was in night-vision green, swaying with each step. I exited, stage right, thankful that my face didn’t show.
“All I know is that she has the best ass I’ve ever seen! Trust me,” he said laughing, “I’ve seen my fair share of asses, hers is goddess-grade. Do you have any clues? Know who she is?”
I could only shrug and shake my head.
“No matter,” he continued. “Although I was loathe to call them in, I know some ritual occultists that are heavy into powers and rituals. I gave them copies of the video and everyone’s depositions. They’ll be by tomorrow, might want to ask you a few questions.”
“Loathe? Why?”
He shrugged. “Thelemists, ceremonial magicians, fucking Satanist types. You know, interested only in personal power, ‘Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law’; not nice people but very knowledgeable and experienced.”
I didn’t give it a second thought, confident in my powers and haughty superiority. The next day, as I sat in my tower, studying a glamour spell, my entire body was filled with a sense of foreboding dread. Something vile, evil, and dark was drawing near. As the constricting feeling threatened to strangle me, an ominous-looking, matte black Cadillac pulled into Langston estate. I could sense the auras of the three people as they emerged. Two men and one woman, all possessing the same nefarious characteristics, climbed out.
The woman was tall, gaunt, and morbidly pale. She reminded me of an exsanguinated corpse. Her stick-figure body was loosely wrapped in saggy, black jeans and a frumpy, black t-shirt with a black leather jacket that had seen better days. Her features were pale, colorless, and almost lifeless. Her ratted hair was dyed jet-black and cropped straight.
Her two male companions exhibited the traits of undead, Goth, Laurel and Hardy. Both were adorned in all black, pasty complexions, with evil, penetrating stares. There was just something overtly sinister about them all.
My powers sensed their auras; all three had auras of mottled dark browns, blacks, sickly umber, and radiated selfishness, evil, hunger for power, and predatory impulses. The vileness and negativity this trio radiated made my essence recoil, quenched all feelings of arousal and desire. The negativity eclipsed my shining passions. These were vile people; that much was obvious.
Casper emerged; I could hear him through my closed window. “Renstar, Alex, Mitch,” he said, addressing the woman, the tall gaunt man, then the shorter rotund one.
I felt wary as if something ominous was about to happen. Instinctively, my powers flowed out of me, enveloping me in a protective barrier of love and warmth. The woman, Renstar, quickly gasped and looked up towards my window. I shrank back, trying to not be seen.
“We were right! It is her! Take them!” she shouted.
I heard shouts, a scuffle, and felt a brief moment of panic, only to be replaced by rage. Aphrodite may very well be the goddess of lust, passion, and beauty, but she also has a dark side and her wrath is well-known. Seconds later, I heard my door being kicked open and the sounds of hurried steps ascending. I searched for a weapon, a place to hide, found nothing.
Alex and Mitch, the demonic Laurel and Hardy, came into view. Alex held a yellow plastic pistol-looking object in his pale right hand. I could either try to force my way past them or jump out of a window. Choosing the window I ran towards it, only a few steps.