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.

The plastic pistol popped. I had only enough time to look at my stomach and see two wires protruding from it. Then the pain shot through me, electric, shocking.

Thousands of volts of electricity shot into my body, the Taser immobilizing me. My last thought, before stars exploded in the back of my head, was “There but for the grace of Goddess go I.” I had just received a shining example of where the pursuit of power for its own sake would lead me. Blackness consumed me; visions of sugarplums, etcetera.

Following a brief infinity of nothingness, I became vaguely aware of my existence. Acutely aware of a terrible migraine and the stench of mold, death, and decay, awareness seeped in from beyond the blackness and lifted me into consciousness. In Denmark, there was the definitive odor of decay. I sensed that I was supine; my limbs refused to move. Forcing my eyes open, thankful that the only illumination was dim, provided by several lit, black candles, I noted that I was tied on my back to a large wooden table. A length of rope wove its way through rusty steel manacles around my wrists, similar decorations about my ankles. I was nude and restrained but otherwise unharmed.

The multiple images washing over my field of view solidified into a single scene. A black-painted, inverted cross swung gently back and forth before me, a battered Casper Montague, one eye swollen almost shut, hung upside down, tied to it, also nude. Dark painted, cinder block walls, further blackened by mold and mildew surrounded me.

Various Satanic and occult symbols were scrawled on the walls in either red paint or blood. A dark opening, stairs leading upwards were on my right. My captors, Renstar, Alex, and Mitch, were arrayed about me.

Alex stood between my shackled feet and the swaying, inverted cross. Mitch stood beside the cross to my left, Renstar on the right; she was reading a ritual from an evilly-bound tome. They all wore black hooded robes, trimmed in blood red, open in the fronts, displaying their hideous, repulsive nudity. Alex held a blackened, rune-covered dagger aloft, his head raised as if in prayer. A second woman, one I had never seen before, stood beside my head.

She was nude, quite well-shaped in figure, and covered in tattoos. Large, store-bought tits jutted out from her chest, her pubes were shaven totally bare, and her hair was dyed crow black. Unlike the others, her aura wasn’t entirely consumed by selfishness and evil. She projected lust, desire, and some empathetic traits along with vileness. As they conducted their ritual, she alternated between humping a human skull, converted into a chalice with the skullcap shorn off, and holding it aloft to the black-painted ceiling.

Renstar read, “We summon thee, Apollyon, Prince of Darkness. Hear your servants’ pleas. Through blood and sacrifice, we beg of thee, our master to bestow upon us the powers of this child of light, anointed with the blood of the valiant.”

“Thrice blessed be Apollyon,” the others chanted.

“As we sacrifice the valiant to you, we beckon thee to enter our worldly realm and draw forth her power, allow us to receive.”

“Thrice blessed be Apollyon.”

The chalice bearer approached Alex as he cut the palm of his hand. She knelt before him, taking his pathetic, minuscule, cock in her mouth, holding the skull over her head, before him. She sucked on him as his red fluid dripped into the chalice. She repeated those steps with the other two, approached the bound and gagged Montague, and cut his wrist deeply. His scream of agony was muffled but loud. She filled the skull with his blood, plunged in the dagger, and swirled the blood within as she approached me, smiling.

As she took the tip of the dagger, dripping with the blood of my bleeding-out friend, I realized what was about to happen. I was to be sacrificed in an attempt to steal my power. The symbols she drew upon me, Satanic, demonic, evil, were the “blood of the valiant”. Killing Casper would open the gateway to the infernal beyond, allowing their Apollyon, their personal god of darkness, to come and drain my life as His offering, giving them my power.

However, they were clods, clumsy oafs. They didn’t know how to draw upon life-energies, only how to spill it completely. Searching my soul, I discovered that I had no fear of death, knowing the paradise of Aphrodite awaited me. The only remorse I felt was that as soon as I received a tiny modicum of power, I flung myself onto the very path these occultists had taken. It destroyed my psyche to realize how vile I, myself, had become.

The pretty one finished her evil blood graffiti on my flesh and raised the skull-chalice once more.

Renstar was chanting, pleading. “As we take in the blood of the valiant, take in our sacrifice’s power, oh Apollyon. Empower us!”

Summoning as much of my power as I could, I all but drained my store of energy and imbued my lust, my passion, my hunger for desire into the blood. As if on cue, reality conforming to my will, the bearer knelt before Alex, once more sucking on his pathetically tiny manhood, as he took the skull and drank from it, the blood dripping from his lips, seeping down his scrawny chest.

“Looks like the Satanist needs a sippy cup,” I spat out.

“Silence infidel!” Mitch bellowed.

I stifled a condescending laugh as the skull-bearing trollop repeated the steps once more. When all three had drunk, she walked around the table, imbibed herself, and poured the remainder over herself. Her shapely breasts and torso were covered in Montague’s blood. Some of it poured onto me, getting in my mouth. I could taste my energy in the salty sickness.

Bending over my head, the dagger held in her hand, ready to end my existence, she spread her legs while Alex took position behind her. Her body rocking forward, moans escaping her lips, her fake breasts heaving with motion, I knew that he had entered her from behind.

“Through blood and sex, we summon thee, Apollyon,” Renstar chanted. “Kill her when he cums to release her powers!”

Mitch masturbated himself; Renstar fingered her repulsive cunt as they watched. They chanted in ritual as I collected the last vestiges of my power and willed Alex’s woman to do my bidding.

Eyes locked, her gaze melting in lust and passion before me, I worked with what little power I had. I had grown so used to wielding massive powers of nuclear proportions that it was difficult. A tenuous bit of connection flowed into a trickle, then into a torrent. I felt it! I felt, could reshape, her passion, her desires, her lust. I poured all my desire into her.

“I love you,” she moaned into my face. “I’ll do anything.”

“Free me,” I said quietly, not commanding, merely suggesting. All the horniness, passion, and lust I could find within myself went into those few words. “Release me so I can touch you.”

Screaming like a banshee she raised her arms, both hands on the dagger as if to end my life. No fear polluted me, only sorrow at having failed. Rather than plunge the dagger into my heart, she quickly severed the rope that held my manacled wrists to the table.

“She’s mine!” she screamed with fury as she turned upright and around, causing a shocked Alex’s pathetic dick to fall out of her velvet sleeve.

I quickly sat upright and made to untie the knot binding my ankles. I heard stabbing, sloshing noises, then agonized male screams. Quickly glancing behind me I saw a prone, screaming Alex, his little wiener still bobbing sadly, spurting blood from multiple stab wounds. The raven-haired chalice-bearer looked up to me lovingly, a stark contrast from her blood-covered body, newly painted in my abductor’s blood.

Springing up, now free to act,I took immediate action. Mitch seemed lost in a daze. He stood there, hand still on his cock, neither pumping nor moving. I thrust my will into him, provoking him to fist his vile shaft with fury. Renstar seemed unaffected by my powers.

The second she saw that I was mobile she rushed towards me in attack, her talon-like, black nails spread out before her. The skull, the only object nearby, quickly found its way into my clutching grasp and was reflexively hurled at her face. A bone-crunching “splut “rewarded my ears as she went down in a tangle of pale, corpse-like limbs. Her head thudded on the concrete floor, hitting so hard it bounced. I pummeled her into the concrete, the now-cracked skull splintering under the force of my goddess-spurned wrath.

Without a second thought, I untethered Casper from the inverted cross, trying to soften the blow as his inverted head succumbed to gravity. Helping him stand, feeling him teeter from blood loss, I wrapped one arm around him, snatched up a black candle for light, and steered him towards the stairs.

We emerged in the crumbling dining room of an ancient, dilapidated, abandoned house. We had been in the basement. Dirt and dust-covered almost everything; Satanic occult symbols were spray-painted on the walls. Our clothes lay in a pile on a once-majestic, now-dingy table littered with half-empty whiskey bottles and food wrappers.

Quickly dressing and helping Casper, on the precipice of passing out, dress himself, I spied the front door, slightly ajar.

“Wait,” he said meekly, looking woozy. "Fucking Satanists!"

I watched in shock as he scooted the ancient table against the doorway, sealing our would-be murders in the cellar. Pouring whiskey from the bottles over the table and the door, mixing with his still-flowing blood, he grabbed the candle from where I had set it and lit the entirety on fire. Flames quickly engulfed the door, the table, and the nearby walls.

“Need stitches,” he heaved. “Hospital. Tell them… tell them construction accident.” Those were the last words out of his mouth. He fainted.

Pulling Casper from the house, stopping to bind his wound with a dust-free woman’s t-shirt, wondering what had become of her, I saw their ominous black Cadillac, keys still in the ignition. As flames began to consume the ancient farmhouse, I was startled when I turned the key in the ignition and Air Supply blared out, full volume, over the stereo. Peeling out of the overgrown yard, I noted the irony of hardcore, murdering occultists jamming out to “All Out of Love.”

It didn’t take long before I had collected my bearings, a silent prayer of thanks to Aphrodite for supplying a handy road sign. Minutes later, again thankful for the gently falling rain that would wash away the blood and grime, I pulled into Keaton Mercy hospital on the outskirts of town. The ER staff assured me that while Casper had lost a lot of blood, he’d be fine as soon as they stitched him up and refilled him.

I ditched the Satanist’s car in a seedy section of town where I knew it would be stolen, leaving the door open and the keys in the ignition to hasten the process. Catching a taxicab home, I took a long, hot bath to wash away the terrors of the day, took a good long cry, and realized that I needed to replenish my energies. Lethargy and exhaustion had already set in. If I didn’t rekindle my internal fires of passion I knew I’d die.

Having seen the end result of solipsism in my abductors, looking only to feed their greed and hunger, I could no longer continue on that same path. Grabbing Captain Flash Rogers for more sustenance of my mortal body, I resolved to only take what is offered, to always give back in kind. I needed to find a place where sex was on the menu, not just take and drain.

Turning on the radio while I readied my witchy eyes and wild hair, Aphrodite provided the answer in the form of a help-wanted commercial.

“Girls, do you want quick, easy cash paid nightly? Do you want to set your own hours and love to dance? The Diamond Club is holding open auditions tonight-only for any and all sexy women interested in an exciting career in exotic dancing. No appointment necessary, tonight only, closed to the general public. Bring your own outfit and your own music.”

It sounded perfect.