Like a whirlwind of cosmic proportions, life buffeted me about, a prophetic tempest of chance and emotion. The gamut of elation to despair, events from impossible to the probable, assailed me. Of woes I was amply blessed, but those that have tend to receive, some Karmic form of compound interest. Chance, happenstance, magick, and fate were playing roulette with my soul. The gods seemed to be playing a game of cricket with my life; there was no rest for the wicked.

Following my abduction by murderous, satanic occultists, Hell-bent, if you'll pardon the pun, on decorating their sickly flesh in my life's blood to steal and absorb my powers, I turned over a new leaf in life. Gone were the days of selfishly draining others. Brooke, the owner of club Diamond, was more than eager to offer her lusty essence to feed my soul and power. I gave back, more than I partook, my soul intertwining with hers, merging in intimate passion. Alas, our affair was short-lived.

After meeting me for dinner, at a classy place with excellent service, horny waiters and sex-oozing waitresses constantly attending, in the hopes of raw passion and dirty sex, they treated us like goddesses on earth. The sexual tension between us close to erupting, we hastened to my home, our gourmet, cream-filled desserts to go. After using our pastries as sexual fodder, licking the sweetness off of each other’s writhing flesh, she had spent most of the night, only to flee in terror.

Brooke, in hysterical panic, shrieked on and on about a ghostly woman in a tattered, bloody white dress, her long black hair billowing in a ghostly breeze. The specter of Mrs. Langston had appeared to her, threatened her, and sent her speeding away, in tears, away from my life.

Casper arrived home from the hospital the next morning. Battered, bruised, arm bandaged, but still smiling, he welcomed me with hugs, a steamy kiss that set my lust ablaze, and multiple thanks for helping him escape. His important "talk" was not what I had feared. He felt compelled to explain that the reason he insisted on the subterfuge, claiming his wound was due to a construction accident, was that he had previously had multiple run-ins with the occultists, never trusted them, and he, additionally, had several metaphysical artifacts lying about that were sourced from less-than-ethical markets. He'd rather nosy policemen and questioning detectives not be involved. He seemed ignorant that my magick had orchestrated our escape.

He was drifting in and out of consciousness, claiming he only remembered the Taser gun, waking up tied upside down to the cross, me on the table, then periods of blackness after his bloodletting, only fully coming to when I released him from his binds. I was happy to weave a tale of loose ropes, a change of heart from one of the Satanists, and making a hasty retreat. His expression remained neutral. I didn’t know if he believed me, but he didn’t press the issue. I suspected that he knew.

Adding complication to chaos, the news-casting version of Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Sandy and Hank, highlighted the disaster we'd left behind on the local news. Still enjoying their hate-hate relationship, they dubbed the place "Hell House."

“In something straight out of a horror movie, authorities just outside of Dovefield responded to calls about an abandoned farmhouse in flames. What they discovered has left them baffled,” Sandy said to the camera in bubbly, newscaster tones.

“Emergency first responders,” Hank added, “arrived at the scene late yesterday afternoon. They described it as an occult ritual gone wrong. After the flames were quenched, human remains, in various states of decay, were discovered in the upstairs of the crumbling house and on the grounds. But it gets even more gruesome from there. Since you know all about gruesome, Sandy, take it from here.”

She shot him a look of loathing. “In the basement, authorities discovered three newly-deceased adult bodies, two men and one woman. The men had been stabbed multiple times, the woman strangled.”

The scene cut to a nervous policeman, obviously not comfortable in front of the mic. “It appears that there were initially four of them, probably some Satanic ritual or something. One of them killed the other three then set the place on fire to cover their tracks.”

The scene cut back to Sandy and Hank. Sandy was speaking, "Police are currently investigating what seems to be one of the most brutal murders in recent history."

“When they catch him, I wonder if he’ll say, ‘the Devil made me do it?’” Hank chuckled.

“Shut up, Hank!”

The implications rattled my soul like a choir of banshees. Either the evil, vile, despicable Renstar, or the not-entirely evil, nameless, tattooed woman had escaped. The revelation kept me constantly on edge. At first, I lived in a constant panic, later anger, and the desire for vengeance. Aphrodite, herself, had told me that wrath is sometimes needed. If my savior had escaped, then it was the blessing of my goddess; if it were Renstar, then she and I had some unfinished business. Almost a week later, I told Casper that one of them had escaped.

“She knows where I live. I say bring it on. I prefer a straight fight. Besides, I’m protected.”

“Protected?” I inquired.

Holding up his wrist, that odd, tumbled-stone bracelet he always wore, now slightly blood-stained, glistened in the light. “Magical fetish.”

“I don’t see how your kinks play into this,” I joked, attempting levity.

“Not that kind of fetish.” He smiled. “This little trinket is magicked, enchanted, and charmed to protect me against the influences of magick, with a ‘K’.”

“Really!” I exclaimed with sudden understanding. “That explains why…” I stopped myself from blurting out that it explained why he was impervious to my sexual powers.

Seeing his inquisitive stare, I launched into telling Casper about Brooke and her sighting of what I assumed was the spirit of Mrs. Langston, following up with a weak statement that was why he hadn’t seen the spirits reputed to haunt the estate.

“Odd,” he mused, “how some see her, some feel her, and others don’t seem to be sensitive.”

"Some people are just sensitive to the esoteric," I mentioned. "I thought an expert, such as you, would know that."

“I do,” he exclaimed. “That’s what makes it odd. Those that are sensitive never seem to encounter her. I more than half suspect that our phantom is a figment of overactive imaginations.”

This is not to say that the past weeks had been nothing but disaster and despair. Aunt Grace’s second tome, her middle grimoire, opened a new universe of powers and abilities. The first book was mostly a treatise on how to personalize one’s access to the supernatural gifts of the divine, plus a few warnings and primers on how to focus those powers. The second book dealt entirely with how to harness one’s abilities into malleable energies that could be used to affect change in the physical world.

While certain abilities had manifested themselves through intuition and happenstance, the second book outlined the steps, spoke of the potential, and laid out the price. A tapestry of cautionary warnings was woven into the prose; this time I heeded them. The described magick didn’t merely stress the bounds of suspension of disbelief, it shattered them, disintegrated them. Jedi mind tricks, already achieved intuitively, were detailed. Total possession of another was described. Enslaving one’s will to do your bidding was given special attention. Communing with animals, humans, and spirits were all laid out in detail.

I merely needed to find some pathway from divine lust and passion towards my end goal. As usual, Aunt Grace described things as “your ritual.” My ritual involved orgasms, passion, lust, and desire. My vestment was my nudity. None of those were the most socially acceptable things in existence. Nonetheless, I was growing in ability, now able to achieve ritual trance almost at will. It took energy and concentration, but I could do it. Linking control, manifestation, luck, and other things into divine horny passion took some imagination and lots of experimentation. With increased control and conservation of energy, my magick was no longer a bomb exploding in fury, but a laser with precision focus, utilizing only the necessary power and lust, wasting nothing.

The revelation that my Aunt Grace wasn’t just warning me crept into my consciousness. As the timbre and tonality of her writing changed, I realized that she had made all these same missteps herself. Her words, encased in side-note symbols, were confessional. “Though we know better, heady with power we choose worse.” Her succinct observations of human nature rang true. “Beware the desires of others. Human nature ultimately devolves into greed, laziness, selfishness, and violence. Others will try to use you for their own gain.”

Still, I remained wary over the possibility of Renstar seeking me out for some power-hungry, satanic vendetta. My cottage and Langston manor repaired and fortified, my powers shaped into defensive and protective energies, spells ready to launch with the flick of a wrist, I felt a little more at peace. Every lithe, pale-skinned woman that came into view was a possible Renstar, waiting to snuff out my life. They startled me to the extent of becoming a phobia. My mind reeled, my body panicked every time I saw someone similar to her. That was when I saw her.

I was back on campus, in disguise, hair covered in a dark scarf, wearing sunglasses, and concentrating on not emanating lust and passion. As desperately as I had wanted to be desired by all, sometimes one needs some solace, hence the disguise to avoid the Lilith Aphrodite fans. Seated on a bench in the quad, concentrating on hearing the thoughts of others, another lesson from Aunt Grace, I saw a thin, dark-haired woman seated on the grass, slouching over a book. A startled gasp and attentive appraisal later I recognized her. It was not Renstar, thank the Goddess, but somebody I had been thinking about for some time.

Her close-cropped dark hair capped a young-girlish figure with pert breasts, obviously pierced and braless beneath her college t-shirt, long, thin legs drowning in a baggy set of ragged cutoffs, and kissable lips that caused instant, overwhelming passion. Had her image not been already seared into my mind, I would have still recognized her. She was the feminist leading the rally when I first gained my powers, the one that first nicknamed me Lilith. She had an open book, titled “Post-Modern Feminist Theory,” sitting in her cross-legged lap, those beautiful eyes were shedding tears.

Opening the spiritual doors within, those that would allow my infinite lust and passion to flow outwards, I approached her, smiling. Her aura was awash with blobs of darkness, despair, emotional pain, and doubt. The glowing sun cast my shadow across her but she held her position, tears flowing freely.

“Why so gloomy?” My voice dripped with all the sensuality, the overpowering need for orgasmic sex that I had been keeping at bay. Her head shot up and I felt that white-hot spark of connection. Pulling off the scarf, my crimson locks freely falling into now-natural, goddess-enhanced loose curls, tearing off my opaque wayfarers, I allowed the heat in my dripping cunt to shoot from womanly essence and permeate her soul.

“Lilith!” she shouted, springing up, the book falling to the grass. She embraced me, hugged me, and kissed my hot lips. The kiss was passionate, star-crossed lovers united for the first time. Her sobs turned to gentle moans, then to needy, urgent passion. I needed to forcibly separate us, lest the mutually shared passions, borne of Aphrodite’s gifts and animal instinct, cause a public scene.

“Why were you crying?” I repeated.

Her face turned dour. “My girlfriend and I just had an argument. I think it’s over.”

“It happens,” were my soothing words. “Why don’t you come to lunch with me? Maybe I can make you feel better?” Initially, I had it in mind to let her seduce me, to finally culminate the desire I had felt for her since we first met. Having learned where the path of solipsism would lead, attempting to help her, to assuage her sorrow at the very least, was a more beautiful and loving choice.

Named Violet, obviously a lesbian, a man-hating one at that, she was a junior majoring in women’s Studies. Arm in arm we crossed the quad, me diverting several others vying for my attention, cries of “Lilith!” echoing off the buildings. Over lunch, her pain was soothed, smiles began, and a call was made to her errant girlfriend. Violet was elated when I convinced her girlfriend, Megan, to come to visit me that evening so the three of us could talk.

Later that evening, once more on Langston manor, Violet and Megan arrived via ridesharing. Megan was a stark contrast to Violet. Curvaceous, buxom, and very feminine, she had playful eyes, pouting lips, and a delectable ass that set my torridly heated cunt on fire. With desire vying for control, it took every bit of effort imaginable for me to sit them down and hear their mutual woes. Seated across my table from them, one hand between my legs, stimulating my clit into greater heights of passion, I could easily sense that they held a great affection for each other but were both too stubborn to admit it. Megan was afraid of being judged, Violet feared that Megan wouldn't accept her for who she was. Both of them were enthralled by me, lusting, hungry. Their desire fueled my own and I projected it back out to them, refreshing them by replacing their fears with lust, their reservations with passion.

Mere weeks ago, I’d have instilled Aphrodite's blessed, throbbing, burning desires into them, drank of their lust, filled my inner vessel and spread pleasures of the flesh, then cast them away. Instead, I poured in intense amounts of compassion, love, tenderness, and lusty kink into a bottle of wine, kissing it in offering as I spoke to them.

“It is obvious that you two care deeply for one another,” my voice conveyed my burning needs. “I am a witch; love and passion are my magick.” I poured three glasses of wine. “Drink of my lust, wet your mouths with the love of desire. If you two truly care for each other, your troubles will melt away, replaced by your need for one another.”

Stunned looks, nervous glances towards each other, then at me, I sipped my wine, smiling at them. Feeling my lust reaching out the short distance between us, I let my desire flow, feeling it heating my body, making my pulse race, consuming me with sexual need. I could already feel the beating of their hearts, their wonder at what might happen, the doubt to my claims, the hope. Violet first took a small, sample sip, then a gulp.

She nodded at the glass then at me. “Tastes good, what kind of wine is it?”

“A red blend. Red, the color of passion.”

Megan followed our examples. Almost immediately, the stressful tension abated, sexual tension rushing in to fill the void. Gently probing with my divine energies, I could feel their reservoirs filling beyond capacity, overflowing with passion. I sat back, feeling good about myself for the first time in ages.

"I'm…I'm so sorry," Megan began, placing her hand tentatively, lovingly on Violet's shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Violet countered. Her breathing quickened, her skin glowed with the heat of desire. “I love you.”

Feeling their energies combine, increase exponentially in that shared moment, I merely sipped my wine and observed. They kissed gently, hands caressing the other’s cheeks. The kiss grew warm, loving, tender, then passionate, torrid, sexual. Willing them to release, I felt their emotions as if I were the one locked in their mutual embrace, felt the moisture between my legs increase its flow.

Nipples hardening, caresses turning to probing, needy gropes, explorations of flesh, they stopped their kiss in unison, so connected were they in both the moment and the flow of energy I transferred to them, glancing towards me with uncertainty and expectation.

"Love and passion are beautiful; don't mind me," I willed them to continue, to journey together on their path. To pontificate my meaning I softly moaned out my desire, allowing my energy to wrap them in passionate heat. My hands slipped beneath my skirt; my self-administered touch sent shivers from my drenched snatch into my core, sending me once more across the planes of existence. Tethered to my goddess by the stringy juices of raw passion I gave my tithe to Her, gave to them, was refilled and recharged in return.

Neither forgetting nor ignoring me, they continued their embrace. Megan moaned in her heat, Violet taking the cue to turn her caresses into passionate clawing on her flesh. Hands disappearing under shirts, then clothing discarded, they lost themselves in the release of sex, their human minds giving way to primal urges. I gave way to my own burning needs and spread my legs widely, feet propped up on the table, my hands playing a lusty symphony on my cunt.

Violet cursed, “Yes! Fuck my hole harder!” Megan moaned, “Please lick my wet cunt,” sending me into the realm of pure pleasure. We moaned in unison, reduced to raw sexual energy, in communion with the divine.

Three of my fingers sloshing into my oozing pussy, releasing more passionate energy as well as gallons of boiling sex, my eyes drifted between seeing the two lovers before me and floating past all of physical existence, into the void of rapture. Megan’s eyes glued to my dripping snatch, my fingers plunging inside me with brutal force, full depth, she quickly tore off her sweat pants, grabbing a handful of Violet’s short hair as she forced her lover’s eager mouth over her wanton slit.

Moaning, on the verge of hyperventilation as her breath came in shrill gasps, the long-haired brunette humped her cunt into her girlfriend’s face, erupting in a screaming orgasm. Her shrill shrieks were so intense they drowned out my moans, as an orgasm, triggered by hers, coursed through my mortal coil.

Blackness and warmth, pleasure and bliss, magick and fuck! Feeling hands upon me, I tore my eyes away from the ethereal realm, my soul plummeting once more into the chasm that is the material plane. The world came back into stark focus; I saw both of them hovering near me, caressing my flesh, licking the nape of my neck. Hands probed my wet velvet, sending physical delights through my body, orgasm near once more. My lips sought flesh, my soul sought union; my magick coursed through their bodies, rekindling the fires of unbridled lust. Connections, both physical and magical, made, I surrendered my lust to them, took theirs into me. Cum, juices, saliva, lips, teeth, and pulsing cunts intertwined.

"Share your passion with me," I half-pleaded, half-commanded. "Make me cum and let me drink of your soul."

Ripping Violet’s shirt from her body, I delighted in the sight of her small breasts, perfect and perky. Small, round half-globes, high and firm, peaked with hard red cherries, lanced with shining metal rods, begged for attention. Pouring the sacred, sexually charged wine over her body I began to lick the tangy sweet nectar from her bosoms. Tongue flicking her piercings, hands groping, moans escaping her lips, I surrendered myself in perfect faith and perfect love to her desires.

“I’m your fucking whore, Lilith,” she screamed. “I fucking love you, Megan, but I need this. Join us.”

Tearing off her loose cutoffs, forcing her onto her back upon the table, I straddled Violet, moaning and squeezing my tits. Violet quickly shimmied herself into position, her mouth just under my dripping slit. My juice oozed from my cunt, wetting her face, soaking her in my desire. Lowering myself onto her lips, feeling her tongue shoot into me, our souls connected, delighting in the pleasures of the flesh my Goddess had charged me with offering.

Grabbing Megan, pulling her in for a dirty, wet, torrid kiss, I heard Violet moan. With our lips locked, tongues exploring the humid depths, I looked down to see that Megan gave in to a primal, creative use for the wine bottle. The smooth, hard, glass neck was buried in Violet’s steaming snatch, slowly disappearing and reemerging. Her moans coincided with each thrust of the bottle.

Kissing the moaning Megan as my fingers sought her magic button, driving her closer and closer to a knee-buckling cum, my own dripping cunt being expertly licked by the prone, frenzied Violet, moaning into my sex as her girlfriend, in turn, pummeled her pussy with the neck of the wine bottle, our mutual passions mixed, ebbed, flowed, and combined into a creation-making storm of passion. Moaning together, moving in unison, cumming together, we all erupted into simultaneous orgasms, collapsing in a heap of flesh on the table.

As we convulsed in tandem, our after-quakes coming strong and fast, the wine bottle fell to the floor and went chattering across the floor. Calmness, laughter, mutual displays of love and affection followed. In our release of passion and lust, our souls combined, our essence became one. My new lovers felt the freedom of divine blessings of the flesh; I felt their love and affection, to the delight of my Goddess as well as myself.

“I love you,” they said to each other. “We love you,” they said to me.

“All made up now? You two need to understand that passion is an instinct, not a choice. Love is an emotion, not a decision. You two love each other; learn to accept each other’s shit.”

“Yes, Lilith.”

“Now, we’re all covered with sweat and cum. Let’s go for a swim to clean and cool off.”

The animals more keeping me company, the winged creatures doing minor aerial acrobatics in greeting, we three strode, nude, across the grounds to the pool. The night was awash with color and vibrant activity; the women were awash with peace and balance. I was emotionally sated in my ability to heal through the power of sex and arousal. Casper Montague chose that moment to emerge from his mansion, his body covered in grime, bandages now off, wearing a towel, smoking a pipe that stank of his glorious homegrown.

“Good evening, ladies,” he smiled out. Violet and Megan, startled, plunged themselves into the water. Used to Casper’s lack of modesty and predilection towards naturism, I merely smiled and waved. “Room for one more?”

“The water’s fine, come on in,” I laughed.

An hour later, introductions made, comfort achieved, pipe smoked, Violet and Megan climbed into another rideshare, all smiles and gratitude. Casper and I lounged in the pool, enjoying the night air, the multitude of stars, the flying denizens of the night. Sharing drinks, smoke, and conversation, we eventually retired to our respective dwellings. Turning back, I noticed Casper had stopped midway between the pool and his home, his eyes riveted on my ass. I smiled, waved goodnight, and added some extra wiggle to my walk. It was a shame that his bracelet made him immune to my powers; he’d be one I’d be willing to charge myself with over and over again. Lust and desire welled up in my loins, nearly overpowering me. Quickly running up to my tower, I used that passion to experiment.

It was time to hone a very useful power, intentionally sending my disembodied consciousness into the world. Once I mastered that I could find Renstar, if she still lived, and take whatever actions were warranted.