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!
