(Two things: I love witches. And this is a long one.)
"I’m a witch," he said.
"I’m the Queen of England," I said.
"Shit, if Lizzie looked like you I’d have gone straight."
He’s an asshole. He’s a charming asshole, but an asshole. If it weren’t for the smile and that whiskey-rough drawl, I’d have told him to - and I quote from an earlier tall tale of his - “skee-daddle” when he first sidled up in the stool next to me. I should thank him for drowning out the easy-listening they’ve piped into the hotel bar mixed in with off-hand news clips of some farm-owners who have gone missing. But, I’m too annoyed that he’s interrupted my plans.
I got stood up. I came to get plastered and use the tab price to stop instead of guilt. But now he looked at me with those green eyes and beard slashed with a smile and I can’t be bothered to care about my wallet. He’s an asshole. A charming asshole, but an asshole.
"I’m doin’ a ritual out in them woods," he continued, "my friends and me."
"My friends and I." I turned on my teacher-voice. He laughed and clapped a hand to my thigh, patting it. He kept talking, unabated.
"Just a firepit, some singin’, dancin’. Lots of booze."
"And you call that witchcraft?"
"Yup?" He smacked his lips before he downed the rest of his sour. I tightened my tie to keep myself from staring at the bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"I called it college."
He laughed again and I smiled in spite of myself. “Well,” he sighed, almost disappointed, “If I had any townspeople to ensorcell - that’s a ten-dollar word, by the way - I’d probably do that. But that’s a little too Salem for me.”
"You know, there weren’t any real witches in Salem. The witches wer-"
"You talk a lot," he chuckled as he slides off the stool. He ran his thumb along my jawline. His wrist smelled like almonds. I smiled. He saw it. Shit. "Lucky you’re cute enough it ain’t a turn-off." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I’m headin’. You want to come, you’re free to ride along."
So I’m here now, in the middle of the woods on a clear night, sitting on a stump in my suit. The stump is cold and wet, but the fire they’ve started is warm. I’m easily the best-dressed here. “Most-dressed” might be a more applicable term. They’re all men, and they all look like they come from the same stock as him: work-hardened and calloused, clad in shorts and tank tops and the occasional jeans that tighten and shape - damn it. I look down at the bottle they’ve given me. It smells like paint thinner. Just what the doctor ordered.
He comes up from behind me and squeezes my shoulder as he passes. Fire dances in his eyes. I flush. He continues past towards the pyre and his friends form a circle, hollow-eyed. They look to him with… respect, it seems. They are black forms before the flame, and he stands in the center, beaming. Weirdos. I drink. It burns, is bitter, is strong.
He starts to sing. The sound is like honey poured over old wood, sweet and thick and seeping. His friends step in unison. Their feet pound the earth in a stomp. Leaves flutter around them and fall back. They start to turn around the fire as they dance. Yup. Weirdos. I drink, and this time it tastes like almonds, smells like a cologne I just nearly remember.
The dancers are faster now. They leap and twist in their turns around the flame, eyes alight with scarlet and orange. I can see their smiles when they face me, bodies flushed and glowing. Their clothes are gone, I realize dully. But their smiles are infectious and every drumbeat of their feet to the earth brings one out in me.
I drink, and it tastes like my fantasies. I stand, swaying, and one of his friends pulls me into the dance. I don’t know the steps, but I follow along all the same. A hand pulls at my tie and it slides loose. He sings and I see him staring at me, hungry and shining. My shirt opens and my chest drinks in the fire’s warmth. My tattoo shows, a mistake from my youth I’ve hidden since the morning after I got it. The hands of his friends stroke its lines, and I know no shame.
Faster, faster around the fire until my pants, my belt, my shoes are memories discarded by the stump. It’s not a song I’ve heard before, but I know every word. It’s not a dance I’ve done before but every step seems natural. We whirl around the fire, a blur of black figures flashing with flame. I feel every flicker of light in my groin and I drink. It tastes like almonds; it tastes like him.
A hand gropes me from the blur. My eyes are closed, but I see Him standing great and glorious in front of the pyre. He is still a man, but his shadow tells me he is something greater, so much greater. We turn and turn and turn in a shrinking gyre until I am pulled towards its center. I can feel the fire in my veins and it needs release.
I am with Him, and his touch is bliss. Even as I wrap my arms around him and crush my lips into him, his song sounds in my soul. He is our Master, around whom we and the world turn. As I enter him and our rite continues, I know it to be true. His slaves dance around us and touch us where they might be honored to do so until they too are ensnared and fall to the ground, twisting and turning and moaning.
As I thrust into him, I stare up into his eyes. The fire is but smoke now, wreathing my mind. It has left the pyre and burns in his eyes until its tongues lap and raze at me through them. Our ritual is one of skin and song, sex and fire, and as I cum into my Master I feel the flames burn away my doubts. All that is left is Him.