Naked beneath the silvery-blue hue of the full moon, I enter the shallow woodland clearing, just as the book instructed. Branches stripped of leaves lace the sky like frail wooden capillaries around me, whispering in the light breeze that greets my sensitive skin. I'm aware of my nipples firming under the dappled droplets of mist that cling to my breasts; hair follicles contracting to commence an all-over shiver. I should feel cold but inner heat swamps it. Excitement, perhaps. Or fear. I'm unsure which is greater.
The leaves beneath my feet rustle and swirl as a gust eddies. Could almost be voices, surrounding, gathering, preparing for the spectacle. Movement to my left snaps my attention and I pause to listen, eyes widening to take in the partial gloom beyond the tree line.
Nothing.
Or something. A broken twig. A breathy sigh. Moonlight catching a pair of shadowy eyes.
Or nothing.
I swallow and shudder. Everything suddenly seems foolish, tonight of all nights. Halloween. All Saint's Eve. Samhain. While the origin of the celebration might be shrouded in historical mysticism and religious half-truths, they mostly agree on one thing: right now, the boundary between this world and the otherworld is at its thinnest. Spirits – benign or hostile – can surface. Listen. Even cross between realms.
All I have to do is summon them. Make them hear. Harness their power.
I'm out of options. God didn't hear me, maybe the spirits will.
Deep down I know it's a bad idea. Risky. Not only leaving myself so vulnerable, clothes piled at the edge of the clearing, but because nobody ever comes out here any more. Not after last time. The headline in the Solfield Gazette had screamed: 'Two dead in woodland ritual suicide!' and that was it. The last in a long line of unexplained, gruesome incidents that condemned the area and its sacred power to history books and hearsay.
Nanna: Mark my words, those woods are haunted, child. You stay well away.
Father: You reading about Pellingham again? What's the fascination? No good will come of it.
Only Mother actively fed my curiosity over the years: That place is powerful, Luna. Used properly, it could provide immense healing.
It's because of that I have a strange affinity to the place. An attraction fuelled by stories of witches and warlocks and spells and shimmering light in the books that line my bedroom shelf alongside traditional texts. It's more than a romantic ideal. I can feel it. A tingle. Energies aligning, triggering another shiver.
Closing my eyes I let my aura radiate, trying to block out my trepidation; the nagging doubts I have over what the hell I'm doing. What if Willow wakes to find my side of the bed empty? Would she worry? Call the police? What would the papers say? Crazy witch found naked in woods. I resist the temptation to insert the word dead in my fictitious headline. It won't come to that. I'm better than those before me. More practised. I can control it.
I have to.
Breathing steadily, I steel, reopen my eyes and approach the centre of the clearing, across the carpet of leaves that scuff and tickle my soles. The dark tips of my hair brush my spine with each crinkling step. I check all the elements are present, running through them in my head, eyes flitting across the space.
Earth underfoot.
Air all around.
Water from the mist.
Fire behind me, candle flickering inside the octagonal lantern alongside my clothes.
That just leaves ether. The fifth element to complete the calling.
Me.
Bone. Tissue. Blood. A conduit.
My only prop is the small photograph curved into my palm. My telos. My purpose. I can almost feel it burning an imprint into my hand as I take the remaining tentative steps.
Nervousness twists my gut but I swallow it back, even when the air grows heavier against my skin. Something changes as I reach the middle. Energy ripples through me from head to foot, rooting me, almost binding me by its sheer force. I gasp and sink to my knees, the leaves strangely welcoming as counterpoint to my heat, hands clapping to the ground shortly after as I'm pulled to earth by invisible shackles. Fear knots my heart. Perhaps I'm unprepared for this.
The power of the place ebbs. Up through my palms, arcing, biceps spasming with electricity that races to my shoulders and radiates down my spine to swirl my hips, before thundering through alabaster thighs to the floor. Over and over, like I've somehow completed a circuit. Plugged into nature.
Heat sears my palms. I only realise the extent after I yank up to kneel on my haunches, the photograph fluttering a few feet. It catches in the crook of a stray twig where I glimpse her face. Almost a reflection, familial features strong. Bubbly and vivacious. Before the illness and doctors and medication stripped it all away. Before she put her faith in them over herself. Over me. Became a gaunt, hollow shell. Lost conviction. Lost her way.
While the electrical storm around me still rages, I focus on her face. How it was. Keep it in mind as I attempt to arrange my thoughts, gradually pushing her away – far away – to a place where I can channel the energy later. To the end wall of a long corridor that stretches ahead in my mind as I refocus on the means to reach her. Help her. To harness my libido and transmit the incredible energy it contains to manifest itself in restorative power. To let my orgasm be heard by the spirits that I feel surrounding and crowding me, to amplify its potency, sweeping my intentions before it; a wave propelling a boat along on its crest.
Perhaps my actions are partly rooted in selfishness; so we can share more years together before we’re separated on this plane by more natural means. But it in no way lessens my desire to effect change.
Everything calms a moment as I muse. The breeze abruptly stops, almost as if the place is holding its breath. Waiting for me. I try not to be unsettled. Concentrate on my goal.
The starting point is clear. Willow. As I kneel in nature's carpet, the warmth of my hands comes to rest on my hips the way she does to me, her proximity lighting me up as her mouth brushes mine. That crackle escalates between us as we take turns capturing one another's lips before the kiss turns potent, tongues lancing, swirling like the leaves that stir once more around me.
I trace fingertips up my body, skim my breasts, then down, exploring the curvature the way she does, each time as if it's her first touch. That's one of the things I love about her. That discovery. That desire to know me inside and out. To take me places I cannot tread alone. To push.
Her touches are tender at first. Barely a breath above my skin that's ruffled by the returning breeze. Each hair seems to respond in an identical manner, standing on end like iron filings to her magnetism. The shiver strengthens as her lips travel across my cheek, nibble my ear and rove to my neck that I tip back to expose.
There's just something about giving myself to her completely. Letting her take me. Own me. Control my pleasure. As her caresses roam from point to point, shoulder, to neck, to throat, her pace increases fractionally. I glow, knowing her actions are not just for my benefit, but because our closeness affects her too. Turns her on. Ultimately makes her drip like the moisture in the air that catches on my lips and rolls into my eager, parted mouth. To devour her as she rocks above me, the moans in my head that she elicits joined by the tree boughs groaning as the wind picks up further.
I'm only aware that I'm stroking my breasts when my nipples harden fully. Strokes turn to full massages, squeezing doughy flesh before I grip each nipple between thumb and forefinger as if it's her lips seeking. Rolling. Pinching as I gasp to the trees, perhaps too loud.
My eyes drift shut but I can feel her staring up at me. Watching my reactions to her tiny nibbles hopping from pebbled peak to peak, occasionally flicking her tongue. Circling. Lapping. Teeth grazing when she senses I need more. I arch, breasts angled up, trying to thrust my needy flesh into her hot mouth, instead feeling the sting of her bite rocket through my taut frame.
Grabbing my flesh, I squeeze. Moan a little. Let the telos flash through my head, to remind the spirits that I'm doing this for her, not me. But Willow occupies the fortress of my mind. It's her breath that heats me. Her teeth that electrify me, aching nipples the epicentre of the fire that dances inside my body in unison with the flame flickering in the lantern.
Between my splayed thighs, wetness forms. Droplets of nectar that foretell an orgasm I need the spirits to hear. One that will carry my power out to where it's needed. I drift fingertips to greet it, scuffing heated bare skin to mimic the way Willow touches, kisses, and licks, her breath fluttering into the smooth curve that leads down to where I need her most.
She often makes me wait. Anticipate. Squirm and wriggle as just her breath plays over me, teasing before the next touch lands. Rarely is it where I expect, which is as exciting as it is maddening. I want her so much. Wish she were here with me for support, but know it's something I must do alone. She wouldn't understand.
My fingers drift almost on automatic to my opening. It's her tongue, I swear. Flicking and teasing my folds, collecting nectar that I see starts to coat her lips. I never tire of that vision. Of her enjoying me.
The thought that anyone could stumble into the clearing and discover me barely registers. Any inhibitions I may have had are consumed by the act of expressing my love for Willow out here. For me. For Zara. For them to deliver.
I can feel them around me, swirling energy building as my fingers pick up speed, curling into myself a notch. Further. Deeper until I'm gasping Willow's name into the mist.
Affording her greater access, I tip my head back further, hair brushing the ground behind my feet. Something tugs at it and I try to jerk forward but I'm held fast. The leaves and twigs whip over my soles like rope and knot, binding me. Loop rapidly up my calves and over my thighs, maintaining my parted posture. Plugged into the clearing again.