Ar**** Posted Sunday at 12:22 PM She’d handed you a book. You’d been searching for the title avidly. Time hadn’t been your friend, the day had been difficult; and you’d snorted at the sight of her. A patchwork coat with golden stars; her wild yellow curls. The eyes like watercolor smears, rimmed in too much kohl. Ruffled skirt. Pointy black shoes. None of which should’ve mattered, but she’d handed you the book. * You went back the next day. The patchwork coat, but now with a filmy white dress, the shapely neck laden with too many moonstones. The day was rivetingly cold, the snowflakes wet; but your brave heart was settled. Today, her latent eyes were grey. She handed you a Tarot card. The Sun. “You deserve what you’re searching for,” she said. You smile. “An oversized playing card?” “Joy,” she said simply. * Day three. You were coming to hate that damn coat. At night, you’d pictured ripping it off, revealing the figure beneath; a ripe fruit. Pomegranate juice, flowing down her full lips. Your fingers danced on your clit and within, but hunger doesn’t abandon us. Not when we’re bewitched. You fall asleep with the card in your hand, your heart beating hard, and the gold leaf a whisper. * The bookstore was growing wary, but you couldn’t stop. You needed her like sunrise; you needed her like air. You would gift seven years of your life to touch her, even once— “Our little game grows thin,” she said. Your head snapped up. Nervously, you grasp the Tarot card, long since worn of its gold, in your pocket. “G-game?” Your laugh is watery. “No. I just like to read, I—“ Her ringed finger traces your lips, your empty words dead. Your pupils flood, your breathing races. Your shaking pulse makes itself known as she traces down your chin, which she suddenly grasps hard, pulling your face near hers. “Say please,” she says calmly. “Oh God,” you rasp. “Please. Please!” “Mm. I chose well,” she says. The surge of arousal is instant, a promise. “Come to me tonight.” “What?” You shake your head, as though to free it of her. “Why?” Her laugh is silver bells. “Does it matter?” She’s right. * Abandoning the disaster you’ve made of your closet, you’re back at the bookstore by dusk. It’s too early, and you’ve had too much of their coffee, but that isn’t why your hands are shaking. The last of the setting sun lights her from behind. Her golden hair ripples down her back. The patchwork coat is gone, replaced with a half-cape of blue velvet. Her dress is white, but iridescent, like the moonstones around her neck. A single ruby pin sits atop the cloak; a drop of copper *** against her warmth. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold. “Come here,” she says. You heed her, almost tripping over your own feet. “I need your consent.” “For?” Her gaze is molten gold. “I am going to destroy you,” she begins. “I am going to unlock the secrets you bury beneath your ribs. I am going to use you until you are spent, mine, messy.” She pauses. “I am going to fuck you so hard you forget yourself, little mortal. So consent.” Your knees buckle. “Yes,” you whisper. “What was that?” “Yes,” you repeat, more confident. You seal your doom with agreement. She presses her lips against yours immediately, right there in the street, the glinting stars watching. Her tongue probes entry into your mouth and you moan; she fucks your mouth with her soft tongue. Your lipstick smears, but you don’t care. “Good,” she whispers. “Good…” “Lady?” “You will come with me,” she says. * She’d blindfolded you in the car, tying your wrists in front of you. You’re soaked, your one good thong ruined. Once she buckles your seatbelt, she kisses you again, harder. Her nimble fingers slip beneath your shirt to pull at your nipples. Your body shudders, your whimpers like a gift. You start to ask her a question, but she gags you. You pull at your bonds, but they’re perfectly tied. She pulls up your shirt and down comes the bra and she sucks your nipples, one, then the other. Her hand slips under your skirt to toy with your clit. You beg into the ball gag, but it’s useless. “My frenzied little slave is wet,” the witch says, removing her mouth. She plays with your clit more. “My toy… will wait her turn.” You’re incredulous when the engine starts. The drive is short, and the house must be private, but you no longer care. Your body hums, the cold air hardening your exposed nipples. When the engine turns off, she puts clips on those nipples. Leads you into the house. She pulls down your gag. “Say again that you consent,” she says warmly. “Tell me.” “Please!” You whimper. “I want you!” “Good slave,” she purrs. She attaches a metal hook through the bindings on your wrists, and you’re pulled up to stand for her. She pulls off your skirt, your thong. Her warm tongue runs along your slit, then inside you. Someone, somewhere, has taught her; and you see stars. Your entire body trembles. She pauses only long enough to remove the nipple clamps, attentive and careful to your every reaction. All the while, her low voice promises that you belong to her. Her slave. Her toy. You are dripping wet when the lube hits your asshole. Beads are carefully inserted, vibrating. She removes your blindfold. She’s naked, the alabaster skin glowing in the moonlight. Naked except for a strap on. A magic wand is in her hand, which goes to your engorged clit. She fucks your pussy with abandon, your holes filled. Your screams and pleas aren’t enough. You realize the strap on is double-ended, buried inside her, too. The full length and girth are thrust inside you, again and again, the angle perfect. “Please! Please don’t stop!” You’re wild now, desperate. “I’m your toy, Mistress! Your slave! God, please!” “Come for me,” she groans, squeezing your breasts. “Come!” And you do, so hard she takes a step back. “My poor little slave,” she says. Carefully, she lowers you, guiding you to a comfortable bed. There’s water and snacks. You lay down, freed of your bonds, her body against yours. She massages your scalp. “What a good girl,” she whispers. “So…. Beautiful…” You see the deck of Tarot cards on her bedside table, and know that there’s one missing. The one in your pocket. The one without gold. “Mistress, let me fuck you,” you say. “Let me please you. Let me serve.” She laughs. “Frenzied little slave,” she repeats. “Get on your knees.”
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