The moment I step from the cab, it isn’t just my attire that attracts attention. I ooze sexual energy in the Wiccan-style huntress dress, with Grandmother's sixteen-carat garnet pinned close to my heart.

As I strut to the curb and along the sidewalk, wives glare, sensing their mate’s lust for me. I’m the bitch; they’re the unneutered dogs, outlines of their erections visible in some of the pants I pass.

But I’m no longer interested in them. Too many disappointed me; the wrong sort wasted too much of my time. Now, I only wear the pin to prime my energy for the night ahead. Rubbing my thumb across the garnet brings a quiver to my thighs, initiating the appropriate mood. 

Before hailing the cab, I'd prepared and dressed for the occasion, modeling in the antique gilded mirror hanging on the shop's wall. Twisting and turning, I assessed every aspect of my body; the sexy shape my generous ass gave to the skirt; the way my tits sat high, spilling from the jade corset top that matched my eyes—Grandmother’s eyes, everyone said. Maybe it was my imagination, but they seemed to have lost their sparkle lately.

That was going to change. I'd made up my mind. As much as I loved and respected her, it was time to do something different—positive, possibly dangerous. I stared myself down, imagining her raised eyebrow at my transformation. I shook my head. “You always said to live life to the fullest. So I am.”

I smoothed wrinkles in the outfit with my palms, gliding the curves. My shapely figure probably came from my mother. With no memory of her, it was difficult to know for sure, but I gave silent thanks to her anyway.

When I twirled my hips, the rose-covered vine tattoo peeked through the slit cut up my left thigh. I’d chosen roses to represent my love flower. And my sometimes thorny disposition. It was also a nod to Grandmother’s shop—now mine—The Enchanted Garden.

The place sat on the seedier portion of upper Bourbon Street and had become a lonely place since her passing. It was a loneliness I could no longer bear, so I decided to close the metaphysical shop early.

I scurried around, blowing out the numerous candles lit in every nook and cranny. Grandmother taught me that The Enchanted Garden should be an experience for visitors. We appealed to all the senses by burning incense and candles, scattering several crystals around the shelves, and playing mood-affecting music incorporating flutes, tongue drums, and crystal singing bowls.

Before leaving, I paused at the small table by the front door and lifted an orange incense to my nose, inhaling deeply. The scent always made me feel Grandmother was close by. It was her favorite because she said its vibrant aroma created a beacon of light in the darkness, helping her find inner peace. I smiled, knowing it would help me that day, even though Grandmother would disapprove of what I was about to do. “Well, you shouldn’t have left me alone,” I fussed aloud, believing she could hear me.

She’d taught me about the ways of Wiccans from the time I was a young girl. I immediately felt the energy flowing between me and other things, such as the crystals sold in the shop. I truly believed Goddess wanted to fulfill my wishes if asked in the right way.

But Grandmother had warned me: “You have to be careful what you ask of Her, Natalia, for She takes things quite literally. If you simply ask for money, you will likely receive endless pennies on the sidewalk.”

I understood, especially after I’d asked Goddess for a man and attracted many, but none was the right man. They were just worthless pennies on the sidewalk.

Grandmother especially warned me against dark magick. “It’s dangerous and unpredictable,” she’d said. There were two points of contention with Grandmother: my mother and dark magick. The former always brought tears to her eyes, so I finally quit asking. The latter brought anger. I suspect the two were tied in some troubling way. Because of that, I didn’t entirely trust Grandmother’s judgment of the darker side.

Enough was enough. I’d tried every other avenue. Why not try just a pinch of it to get what I wanted? Didn't I deserve happiness?

And so, I stride to the door of the upscale vintage store known for its jewelry, dresses, and art, hunting for the perfect object for my ritual. It must represent what I desire, and I quicken my footsteps because the new moon is fast approaching. 

As I roam around the shop, the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck tingle with the feeling I’m being watched. I rotate my head until I spot him—the man in the portrait hanging on the back wall. My breasts and face flush from the heat of his gaze. I immediately know he is the reason Goddess led me to this location.

Excited, I weave my body between those more civilized who have gathered around him yet are much too polite to stare.

When I reach him, his appearance takes my breath away. Oh my, he’s perfect. I marvel at his raw power, from his chiseled face to the raised veins in his muscled forearms. And his cock is majestic—not downplayed like in other statues and paintings. Almost feeling the force of his hip thrusts between my legs, I release a low moan, drawing a few stares.

I look for strength in his features, wanting him to take control of me. “Shush! Him taking the lead doesn’t mean I’m powerless, Grandmother!” 

My outburst now brings more than stares. “Who’s the crazy witch talking to?” someone whispers.

Curiously, the portrait appears unsigned, or perhaps the chunky frame hides the artist’s name. It doesn’t matter; for my needs, da Vinci or a starving artist could have painted him. Da Vinci is not so far-fetched, given his rumored inclinations.

I wonder if he was a real man who walked the earth or only a figment of the painter’s imagination. I hope he’s real.

I can’t deny that my arousal soars in his presence, but I need to be sure he’s the one. Unlike my fellow shoppers, social standards have not yet tamed me, and so, with his eyes fixed upon me, I rise up on my tippy toes and kiss him, staining him with my crimson lip color. I keep my eyes open, as does he, of course.

I take things one step further and trace his girthy cock with my fingernail. Invisible sparks fly; this portrait has an intense energy. The air vibrates between us. He is the perfect ingredient in my ritual, of that I’m certain.

I turn and smile at the gawping onlookers, then proudly purchase the portrait of the naked man.

My bedroom is the only place he belongs.

~ ⛤ ~

Once home, I position him to my liking within my intimate space. He’ll play a vital role in the manifestation ritual, so I hang him over my bed. Low. Within reach.

Stepping back to admire the painting, I reassure myself that I’m doing the right thing. Although I never saw Grandmother with a man, she understood my cravings for one: “Follow your own path, my dear.” She taught me how to manifest love and nurture it, but time after time, my relationships failed. “Be patient, child,” she’d say. “The perfect love is the most difficult to achieve because another’s energy is involved.”

But Grandmother is gone, and so is my patience. I’m alone. Time is ticking. I need to try things my way, which will involve dabbling in voodoo.

The practice is prevalent in our community. Many fear it, but not me. I firmly believe there is light and darkness in all of us. If controlled, darkness can provide valuable assistance by bringing passion to the more passive light; it just needs discipline, belief, commitment, and, above all, purity of mind and body.

To that end, I need a cleansing bath—my sacred space—to form a deeper connection to Spirit and self. I remove my dress and draw a hot bath, leaving the clawfoot tub free of bath oils and bubbles. Every woman has a unique, natural fragrance, and it’s imperative to the spell that I leave mine unmasked so my mate can find me. 

I step in one foot at a time, then lower my ass beneath the soothing water. With a deep, relaxing sigh, I lean back against the towel draped over the edge. The ripples gradually fade as I focus on regulating my breathing, entering a meditative state.

Once wholly relaxed and clear-minded, I wet a plain white cloth and gently wash my face, neck, arms, and legs. Using only my hands, I rub water across my breasts, careful not to arouse my nipples too much. Everything must be done at the proper time. Then, I open myself up to the divine—allowing my knees to spread and fall against the sides of the tub. My slender fingers twist the cloth and cleanse my folds and the center of my sexuality. 

When I'm properly bathed and step out of the tub, I’m comforted, knowing unwanted energies wash down the drain.

Hugging my pillowy breasts, I smile. The calm before the storm is my favorite part. I let the energy swirl. Build. Call.

I gently pat the water droplets off my body with a towel, again careful not to arouse. In due time, my essence will become a raging inferno of desire.

My eyes smile at my reflection in the mirror. I’ve always loved my body and explore it frequently. If I don’t know how to arouse myself, how can I expect a man to know? In calling to Goddess and my own Spirit, sexual energy is powerful and, if used the right way, can prove a potent force.

While wrapping myself in a white robe, I carefully consider the wording in my spell. Grandmother taught me to be mindful of my words, especially during rituals—a valuable lesson I've always heeded. Respect is essential in all things. She detested the word manipulate, preferring to say we encourage the Goddess to fulfill our desires. Afraid of the consequences, I don’t want to dishonor Madame Laveau.

I enter my bedroom and immediately seek the man in my intimate space. His gaze bores through to my soul. The thought of attracting such a man provides an insane rush of electrical pulses to the apex of my sex.

I take a deep, cleansing breath. It’s time.

While my finger traces the pentagram inked on my forearm, I focus on the object of my desire—the irresistible man in the portrait. As heat swirls around and inside me, I move to write my intentions. Reaching for the pen and paper on the nightstand, with a trembling hand, I scribble the spell:

Madame Laveau, my sister, with honor, please hear my intentions. Please give me the magick to bind the perfect man to me. Bind him once and forever, and he shall never let me go.

Grandmother’s warnings infiltrate my thoughts. Beware of black magick! It’s dangerous, child!

I push her words aside. Earth Mother, my Goddess, alone hasn’t answered my call. This ritual is my first to incorporate voodoo, and I’m admittedly nervous. To find courage, I look into his eyes—the man of my dreams—and fold the parchment, placing it underneath the candle holder.

Next, I light the white soy candle on the nightstand. A pinch of cinnamon and a dollop of honey surround the candle's wick. I scatter a small bag filled with carnelian and rose quartz crystals around the candle. With the spell’s elements in place, I now must speak aloud my intentions, “Bind the perfect man to me. Bind him once and forever, and he shall never let me go,” and watch the flame brightly flicker before settling into a soft glow.

I turn with the languorous grace of a ballerina to undress for him. My fingers untie my robe, which slides from my narrow shoulders to pool at my feet.

The desire within me awakens. My nipples darken in want, and I pinch them, stimulating myself further. 

“Come to me.” My voice drops low on the last word and momentarily frightens me. It has a deep, unrecognizable, commanding tone yet drips with need. 

An unnerving yet irresistible force is seeping inside me. Do not fear the darkness, an unknown voice whispers in my ear. 

I feel it, cling to it—this new power—and my erotic dance begins. Chanting the voodoo spell over and over, my hands roam my breasts as I rotate my hips in slow, circular motions. Seductive movements entice and arouse my perfect man. The candle’s flame lengthens, dancing with me. I become delirious. Filled with the Spirit. Uninhibited. I conjure the image of him in front of me, flesh and bone, and my body flails with sexual energy rippling through me. I’ve lost control. The dark magick!

My pussy screams for touches—aching, pulsating, begging. I need him, so I fling myself on my bed covered in rose petals and roll onto my backside. I reach one hand to the portrait, splatting my palm against his heart while the longest finger on my other hand thrusts deep inside my sex. Squeezing in a second finger and then a third, my finger-fuck begins. My vision blurs as my hips thrust off the bed.

I snap my head back to the portrait. His gaze pierces my essence. I squeeze my eyes shut, summoning the man who’d look upon me with those same eyes.

Bind the perfect man to me. Bind him once and forever, and he shall never let me go.

“Come to me,” I pant and claw at the canvas, my voice no longer human. 

Indecipherable shadows appear on the surrounding textured walls, then shape-shift into human silhouettes. Nipples protrude from voluptuous breasts. Cocks grow to impossible lengths. The shadows writhe and fuck in all imaginable positions. They’re connected to me, acting out my desires. And they moan with me. 

I slurp my fingers inside my mouth, envisioning his cock while my other hand continues ravishing my cunt.

Thrashing about on the mattress, I conjure a man conquered by lust and jealously watching my fingers as I grunt, “I will soon be yours.”

He needs me closer. I rise to my knees and mash a breast against his lips, begging him to lick my creamy flesh. My dry little buttons screech for touches. Before his watchful eyes, I play with my nipples in front of his mouth. “Come to me and slide your cock between these breasts.” 

I melt into him.

My hand smacks my swollen clit. I rub my cheek against his cock; turning my face, I lick his shaft in between my incantations.

Wildly bucking my ravenous cunt against my hand, I draw closer to the precipice.”Is it time?” I call to the darkness. 

The shadow figures peel off the walls. They circle me and the painting, hovering, watching me teeter on the painful edge, and then they touch one hand on me and one on him. 

Our chorus of voices chant, “Madame Laveau, hear my cries! Bind the perfect man to me! Bind him once and forever, and he shall never let me go!”

I come—hard.  

Falling back on the bed, shuddering and twitching, I reach up to smear my drippings messily across his mouth.

“Drink of me and come bind to me once and forever, and never let me go,” are my last words to him before sleep takes my energy-depleted body.

I leave the candle to burn out in its own time, ensuring the ritual reaches its natural conclusion.

~ ⛤⛤ ~

At the first strike of the antique grandfather clock, I stare out from the frame over the bed into the room. Its chimes mark twelve—the witching hour.

The Edison lightbulb casts an amber glow upon her naked breasts, drawing my eyes from their fixed position. She had mercilessly enticed me into her erotic world with her earlier display—invisible chains preventing my response.

But freedom has finally come for me.

I crawl out of the frame with the careful movements of a wild animal approaching its prey. The mattress depresses under the weight of my body, but Natalia remains fast asleep.

It is not until I nestle my heated form behind hers that she stiffens, and her eyes shoot open. My hand covers her mouth, stifling her scream, and my legs block her thrashing kicks. Her wild eyes glance over her shoulder, and upon recognizing the brown eyes staring back, she stops fighting me. Gasps.

Her attention darts from my face to the blank picture above her bed. Her beliefs, like Pygmalion, confirm her desires have been fulfilled, even if in an unexpected way.

She squirms in my grip, turns to face me, and places a tentative palm on my chest as if she still does not believe it. From there, she trails a fingertip to my forearm. Then bicep. Up to my shoulder. Across and higher to trace the curvature of my mouth. With a crooked smile, she follows that by leaning in, lips leading the charge as they connect with mine.

The kiss is tender. At least to begin with. I am eager to kiss her back. When my tongue peeks, she parts her lips and lets me in, commencing a slippery duel. Her fingers snake to the nape of my neck and clutch me to her tighter, needing me as our bodies follow, writhing against one another.

Breaking the kiss, I roll on top of her. Trail my lips to her collarbone. 

She whispers, “You are really mine?”

I look upon her glistening jade eyes and answer, “Once and forever, and I shall never let you go.”

She smiles, and I rear up a little and run my hands to her wrists, lifting them above her head to pin them against the mattress as my mouth resumes its journey. I trace the curvature of one quivering breast. Then the other, gradually looping up closer to one hardening peak.

I pause. Lift my head and gaze into her eyes that burn with need. She does not need to signal assent; it is written in her manner. Lowing my head again, I flutter my tongue over her proud nipple, rewarded with a sigh and an arch of her back. Emboldened, I lap again. And again. Then, at her mewled encouragement, introduce my teeth to graze and nip her tender flesh.

Natalia responds vociferously. Arches her back further, within the confines of my thighs anchoring her hips, and hands preventing her wrists from moving. My shaft stirs and brushes her belly.

In the interests of symmetry, I kiss my way to her other breast, its cap already proudly awaiting my mouth. Her skin radiates heat, a stark contrast to the timeless cold of being trapped in the painting. I feast on her warmth, which grows with each flash of my tongue and scrape of my teeth. 

My actions increase as she begins begging for more. I hop from breast to breast, licking, sucking, gently biting until her irregular breathing deepens to panting. I have witnessed enough carnal acts—been hung on enough bedroom walls—to know when a woman wants more, and I pass that on to Natalia.

Drawing her wrists down in an arc across the sheets to her sides, I keep them pinned to the bed as I shuffle kisses from the valley of her chest to the rolling curves of her stomach. I take my time nuzzling and caressing her delicate skin, partly to savor the moment of connectedness and partly to extend the tease of delivering what I can smell she wants.

As my lips drift ever closer to her core, her scent grows. I am drawn to her natural essence, echoes of the bouquet she smeared across my lips and body earlier. It is powerful and womanly and utterly irresistible.

My mouth makes contact, and she sighs, then gasps when I nibble down one labial lip and up the other. She is slick. My tongue finds her entrance and snakes in a fraction, nose dusting the nub she was rampantly rubbing during her ritual.

Her hands squirm under me, and I tighten my grip. Hers are not the struggles of someone wishing to escape but someone who wishes to take matters into her own hands. Patience is a virtue she has yet to conquer, but in time, she will learn that exceptional rewards greet those who wait.

I pull away, lips and nose shiny with her juices. She groans and rocks her hips, body begging for my touches to resume. I smile and catch her eye. The fire rages, and she is beautiful in her rawness.

Extending my tongue, I place it at the base of her folds. Flutter, then drift upward, flicking and lapping all the way to the tip where her precious jewel sits proudly. She bunches her fists when I roll my tongue around it and shrieks when I encase it in my wet lips and suck over and over.

Her legs twist between my thighs as her moans escalate. I hold her tight and focus all my energy on her button, sucking and licking and circling until she crests, hips thrusting against my mouth and freezing.

Beyond the rolling flesh of her breasts, her mouth is agape. Breath held. Motionless until one long huff and several ecstatic caws escape, her sex quivering against my mouth, head clamped between her thighs.

I let her bask until, with a wiggle of those womanly hips, she signals enough contact. I pull back, drenched, then gingerly press my lips to each rose on the tattoo that circles her thigh.

She moans, then asks, “How is this possible?”

I sit up and smile down at her sated form, still holding her wrists. “You called to me, and I came.”

She blushes at my answer, and before she has time to recover fully, I slide her hands back up above her head, position my shaft at her entrance, and catch her focus. Her eyes widen as I penetrate her. She quakes when I split her petals and sink deep, head lolling to one side, gasping, “Yes!”

The rhythm builds, our bodies grinding just like she did against me. My mouth finds hers, and she melts into the kiss infused with her scent. I slow. Crash our bodies together at the extent of my thrusts and exit completely at the other extreme. Wait for her folds to begin closing before splitting her anew and plunging deep.

I rear up away from the kiss, still covering her body and holding her down. Possessing her. Natalia chants under her breath, indecipherable words yet clearly borne of pleasure. My climax builds, and I find myself picking up speed again. Shallower thrusts, yet faster. She approves, bucking her hips to meet mine, eyes closing as the friction of our pubic bones reenergizes her sweet nub.

Her moans become louder, joined by my own guttural exaltations. A symphony of lust erupts, and I thrust one final time, burying deep as I pulse inside her. I swallow her mewls with a ferocious kiss as she clenches around my shaft, and we ride the waves of pleasure together until they gradually fade.

When I release her and roll aside, we lie face up, exhausted and grateful, our fingertips entwined, lazily stroking one another.

Once we have cooled, she nestles her backside against my front, and both of us fall asleep, drifting in the afterglow. We awaken in the small hours and do it all over again. Then, just before dawn, she surrenders to me while lying on her belly, and I drive inside her molten center.

As we lie entangled, catching our breath, she wriggles free and turns to face me. “I’ve needed you.” She strokes my cheek. 

“You brought us together, and I will remain by your side, always,” I reassure her. 

“I believe you.” 

She is an incredibly sexual being. I watch her slip naked from the bed and pad to the huge window, the nets wafting in the breeze. She swings with a delicate grace, laced with purpose. Confident. Powerful.

I steal from the covers and step behind her, looping an arm around her soft belly. Although it may be wishful thinking, I swear the machinations of life are already forming beneath my palm. I swallow.

Warmth spreads. Fingers of dawn prick the horizon, and as the rays bathe us in light, a rumble begins in the room. An unearthly wind whips through the space, toppling knick-knacks and scattering paper, including Natalia's written spell. It swirls around us, picking up speed. I tighten my hug around her. Protect her.

A force exerts on my body, pulling me away from the window towards the bed. I lose my footing and dig my heels into the boards, but to no avail, as I start to slide away from her. I scrabble and grab her arm as the throb increases and the pull intensifies. She turns and tries in vain to hold me, a vicious tug of war that will surely rip me in two. My legs raise until I am prone in mid-air, toes pointing to the empty painting.

Slowly, inexorably, we are dragged by the mysterious vortex to the bed, across the sheets, and towards the picture frame. I try to release my hand and free her, but my grip will not relinquish. I cannot tear my eyes from hers. We are bound together and always will be.

Natalia screams, “This isn’t what I—“ as the frame envelops us, and the wind abruptly ceases, leaving me gazing into the eyes of my lover, my hand clutching her wrist, for the rest of eternity.