Chapter 6: Cauldron & Cock
The broomstick was a dead thing beneath them, a bundle of twigs and spite, but it cut through the cold air like a knife. Max held on, his arms wrapped around Sarah’s waist, his face buried in the cascade of her hair that now smelled of sunlight and old magic. The world below was a blur of treetops and darkness.
Her hand came up and covered his, guiding it roughly under the thin fabric of her dress. “Squeeze it,” her voice floated back to him, eaten by the wind. “Harder. I like it when you mark me.”
His fingers complied, kneading the full weight of her breast, his thumb circling her nipple until it pebbled into a stiff peak. It was an automatic response. The desire was not his own; it was a low, throbbing current fed into his nervous system from that anchored place in his gut where she now resided. He pinched, and she let out a sharp, happy cry that was snatched away by the night.
Her own hand slid down between her legs, hiking up the skirt, and he felt her fingers push his down to meet her. She was already wet, her folds slick and hot. “Make me come,” she demanded, her body arching back against him. “Do it while we fly.”
He rubbed his middle finger over her clit in frantic, messy circles, his other arm clinging to her for balance. The broom dipped and shuddered. She moaned, grinding against his hand, her breath coming in short, misty pants. Her climax was a series of violent tremors that made the broomstick waver precariously. She laughed, the sound unhinged and joyful, as she guided them down into a deep pocket of shadow within the forest.
They landed in a clearing that felt wrong. The trees were too tall, too twisted, their bark black and split like old scars. Roots broke through the soil in knuckled ridges, and they seemed to pulse with a faint, slow rhythm. In the center, atop a moss-eaten stone, a single black candle sat unlit, its wax dripping solidified tears.
Sarah dismounted, her movements liquid and sure. She turned to Max. In the dappled moonlight, her new radiance was eerie, a lighthouse in a sea of gloom. She didn’t look like a survivor; she looked like a conqueror.
“Over here, lover,” she said, walking backward towards the largest oak, its trunk a gnarled monument. She leaned against it, hiking her dress up to her waist. The pale skin of her thighs glowed. “You didn’t finish your breakfast.”
He followed. There was no hesitation, no thought of refusal. The part of him that would have recoiled was buried under layers of enchanted silt. He dropped to his knees on the damp, cold earth. The smell of her, musky and inviting, filled his nose. She spread her legs wider, hooking a heel against his back to pull him in.
“Eat,” she commanded, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Eat it all up. Your tongue’s got work to do.”
He pressed his face into her. His tongue traced a long, flat stroke from her entrance to her clit. She tasted like salt and witchcraft. He focused on the little bundle of nerves, licking and sucking with a rhythm that was not his own but was perfectly tuned to her subtle shifts and sighs. One of his hands came up to grip the cheek of her ass, holding her open for him, while the other slipped inside her, curling upward.
“Oh, fuck, yes… right there…” she slurred, her head lolling back against the bark. Her hands tangled in his hair, not guiding, just owning. “You’re such a good little puppet. Your sister ever tell you you give good head?”
The name ‘Dani’ sparked a faint, dull ache somewhere in the back of his skull. He ignored it, pushing his tongue deeper.
“Didn’t think so,” Sarah giggled, grinding her pussy against his mouth. “This is all for me. This pretty mouth is my personal pussy-licker. Now, faster.”
He obeyed, the pressure building in his jaw. Her breaths became short, ragged gasps. She chanted as she came, not a spell this time, just filthy, triumphant nonsense. “Yes, yes, fuck, drink it, drink my come, you belong in my fucking juices…”
Her climax soaked his chin. She held his head there for a long moment, shuddering, then pushed him away with her foot. He knelt back, breathing heavily, her taste coating his lips.
She smiled down at him, a predator admiring a well-trained pet. “Good boy. Now fetch the bag.”
He stood, went to the broomstick, and retrieved the small, rough burlap sack tied there. Inside was a stoppered clay vial and a mortar and pestle made of dark, volcanic rock.
Sarah had moved to the mossy stone. With a snap of her fingers, the black candle wick ignited with a flame the colour of a bruise. Its light did not push back the darkness; it absorbed it, making the clearing feel even more enclosed.
“The virgin blood,” she said, holding out her hand. Max gave her the vial. It was still slightly warm. “Crushed moonlight is trickier. It’s not about the moon, silly. It’s about the shadow it casts.” She pointed to a specific patch of silvery light filtering through the canopy. “There. Scoop that.”
Max took the mortar and walked to the spot. He felt foolish, trying to scoop light. But as he moved the pestle through the illuminated air, a thick, viscous silver substance gathered in the bowl, like liquid mercury but cold as the void between stars.
He brought it back to her. She uncorked the vial and poured a thick, dark red stream into the mortar. The two substances did not mix. The blood coiled around the shimmering moonlight like a serpent.
Sarah picked up the pestle. She began to grind, a slow, circular motion. A low hum emanated from the cauldron, resonating in Max’s teeth.
“This is the fun part,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the mixture. “The binding’s done, sugar. That’s just for you and me. This… this is for everyone.” She looked at him, her expression gleeful. “This is the rot. This is the itch they can’t scratch. And you,” she said, nodding towards his trousers, “you’re going to help stir it in.”
He understood. He unfastened his pants, freeing his cock. He was half-hard, his body responding on cue to her unspoken will.
“Yeah, that’s it,” she crooned. “Put it in. Fuck the spell into the town.”
He stepped forward, the head of his penis pressing against the cold rim of the mortar. He pushed inside. The mixture was a shocking, alien temperature—freezing and burning simultaneously. He thrust slowly, the blood and liquid light offering a bizarre, slick resistance.
“Deeper,” Sarah urged, still grinding with the pestle in rhythm with his strokes. “Think about it. Think about all those happy little people in their little beds. The mayor. The schoolteacher. Your fucking mailman. Every time you pump, their dreams get a little darker. Their anger sits a little closer to the surface. Their secrets fester.”
He fucked the mortar, his balls slapping against the stone. The pleasure was absent, replaced by a chilling, spreading numbness that felt like power. He could almost see it—a grey stain seeping through the forest floor, seeping through water pipes and root systems, heading toward the sleeping town.
“They’ll never know what’s wrong,” Sarah murmured, her voice hypnotic. “They’ll just feel a little emptier. A little more jealous. A little more ready to hurt someone. And when they do…” She laughed. “We’ll be there to feast on the mess.”
His climax approached, not as a peak of sensation, but as a void opening. He came into the mixture with a harsh groan, his release jetting into the concoction. The substances fused instantly upon contact with his seed, transforming into a thick, iridescent sludge that smelled of ozone and copper.
Sarah stopped grinding. She dipped a finger into the blackened goo and smeared it across Max’s lips. He tasted bitterness and a shocking, electric charge.
“The first kiss of corruption,” she said, licking her own finger clean. She then picked up the mortar and, walking to the edge of the clearing, poured the contents onto a thick, throbbing root.
The earth gulped it down.
A tremor passed through the ground. The trees groaned. For a moment, every light in the distant town seemed to dim.
Sarah turned back to Max, who was fastening his pants, his movements slow and precise. She walked over and cupped his cheek, her thumb wiping a stray streak of the mixture from his chin.
“You see?” she said, her eyes soft and horrifyingly affectionate. “It’s not so bad. You get to come, and I get to ruin everything. It’s a fair trade.”
She took his hand, her fingers intertwining with his. The connection between them hummed, warm and complete. She led him away from the clearing, leaving the candle to burn itself out in the corrupt dark.
“Come on,” she said, her voice light again, ditzy. “I’m thinking pancakes. And I want to watch the sunrise from someone else’s porch. Someone who won’t remember we were ever there.”
They disappeared into the trees, two shadows against the deeper black, the first tendrils of their spell already creeping toward the innocent, dreaming houses below.