Sex Magick

by Tom Raimbault

  As Jim saw it, some women are simply made to play rape—especially Kimberly. A thick, curvy frame and such a strong body made it easy to play rough. But the same wouldn't hold true for Amber. Jim thought of this while battling with his crazed wife in bed. Amber's body was fragile and thin in comparison to Kimberly's. With such a delicate, pretty face and beautiful, blond hair; a woman like Amber was to be handled with care. Making love would be gentle and tender with slow, passionate kisses. Amber probably enjoyed her sex soft and cuddly, not hard and rough like Kimberly. In fact, Amber didn't have sex! Amber made beautiful love, Jim assumed.

  I suppose many men have looked in the mirror and rehearsed for the possible moment when a wife discovers the other woman. For Jim, he could rehearse a convincing argument. “She meant nothing to me! I made sweet and tender love to that bitch and then held her for a long time after that. But I screwed you rough and hard, and treated you like a crazy animal!”

  That would work, wouldn't it?

  Nearing exhaustion, Kimberly had no choice but to allow Jim to take what he wanted. But it wasn't enough for Jim. While deeply thrusting himself, he would take turns wildly kissing Kimberly's luscious, hot lips; then to squeeze and suck her large breasts. She was doing this to Jim, “that woman”. All that sex magick was turning Kimberly's husband into a crazy sex maniac. It was the only explanation for Kimberly. And to make matters worse, Kimberly was beginning to enjoy the assault. In fact, at one point, she even exclaimed, “Why do we wait so long to have sex?”

  “I don't know.” said Jim. “We need to do this more often.” He continued to thrust himself while admiring the view Kimberly's gorgeous breasts that bounced up and down. The sight of them, alone, was enough to cause a near climax. Towards the end, Jim squashed his chest against Kimberly's so that nipples touched nipples. He loved her beautiful breasts! And he nearly broke her shoulders while holding on for dear life. Jim was hard as ever and finally exploded with an almighty force; his heart racing like a jackrabbit.

  Kimberly, too, climaxed in that moment. One might think that husband and wife were truly made for each other. Jim voiced this as the surge of endorphins provided the ultimate high. “Baby, you're freaking amazing.”

  Kimberly giggled in reply…

  …And then it was back to reality. Disgusted with herself, she stood up as Jim rolled over to Kimberly's side and lovingly stroked her beautiful, naked body. But Kimberly was in no mood to cuddle. How did she let this happen? “Well, there's your Thanksgiving present.”

  Jim lay there and watched as Kimberly put her nightshirt back on and stepped out of the room. Amber would have laid there with Jim. She would have lain up against his chest to have Jim comb his fingers through her pretty hair. There would have been no urgency to watch the blasted TV in the family room. Amber would surely lay in the dark with Jim, cuddling and enjoying idle conversation until falling asleep.

  Now alone, the phone in Jim's pants pocket buzzed on the floor. It was probably another text message from Amber.

  Chapter 23

  Something happened in that tool room; Daren just knew it. Now his own, little room in the cellar; Daren had two private clubhouses to enjoy. But the tool room was a dark place that filled him with such mystery, while at the same time provoking overpowering emotions. In contrast to that dark place, the family mausoleum safely held his beloved Mary Trivelli. She was safe, now; safe from her rotten husband who had murdered her nearly two centuries ago.

  How badly Daren needed to be with her in those final moments of terror. While his own wife worked at the flower shop during the day, Daren would consume too many beers with Grandma Trivelli until reaching a point of despair. Nearly drunk and in a need to rescue his long-distanced love, Daren would return to the tool room and intimately place his hands on the tool bench in some attempt to bleed through the fabric of time-space continuum. Nearly two centuries of damage were deeply explored by Daren's fingers, every strike from a hammer and every gash from an axe blade. Strangely, alcohol did this for Daren. It shifted his consciousness to another realm that he had yet to understand. Sometimes he felt he could literally reach out and affect the outcome of things by penetrating some imagined veil. Surely he could traverse the small obstacle of time and save Mary Trivelli.

  In frustration and in sudden doubt of this imagined ability, Daren would return to the family mausoleum to regain his mystical power that was made possible by longing for the woman in the jar.

  “Daren, you need to focus on your wife, not me. Your feelings and concerns are much appreciated, but my granddaughter needs her husband.”

  Daren didn't actually hear Grandma Trivelli speaking through the jar, but he felt her wishes. She was right, of course. And Mary would be home in another couple hours. It was best to seal Grandma Trivelli back up in her crypt and lock up the mausoleum for the afternoon.

  * * *

  It was a late, Wednesday afternoon; two Wednesdays that followed Thanksgiving—already December. With Daren airing out in the family room from his afternoon, beer-induced stupor; Mary broiled some homemade hamburgers and potato wedges for dinner. Other than the taste of beer on Daren's breath when kissing him, Mary wasn't the least-bit aware of how badly he had drunk that afternoon. And Daren presented no reason to be concerned of this. Being a salesman was his livelihood, and he could create any personality he wished. Daren could act cheery for his wife and disguise the ugliness for that moment.

  Over Dinner, Mary spoke of a recent, daily phenomenon at the flower shop. Perhaps Grandma Trivelli had done some intercession through her granddaughter. The story would emphasize just how much Mary needed those simple acts of affection.

  Mary squirted some ketchup on her hamburger bun while introducing the story. “So, for the past few days we have this guy who comes in the flower shop and asks for a rose. He comes in about three o'clock and demands that the petals aren't wilted or dried.”

  Daren took a bite of his double burger with cheddar cheese. “Hmm…”

  “But then I noticed that he wears a wedding band. Shelly and I are like, 'That's so sweet. Here the guy is buying a rose for his wife every day.' She's so lucky.”

  Daren took a sip of water before commenting. “He probably has a girlfriend. Or maybe he got in a really bad fight with his wife and he's trying to make up.”

  Mary sighed, “There you go, again! You always have to see something negative. Can't the guy just be really sweet and buy his wife a rose before going home?”

  Daren understood that women appreciate candy and flowers, having the door held open for them or holding hands in public. But he also believed that too much of a good thing made it all-the-less special. “Look, I just know that men don't over-do it, and for a good reason. Okay, maybe your customer is a sweet guy and decided to start buying a rose for his wife every day. The first day is a surprise. The second day, 'Awe, isn't that nice.' By the third day, his wife is getting sick of finding vases for the roses. You know what I mean? That's why I concluded that either he has a girlfriend, or maybe he's trying to make up with his wife.”

  Again, Mary sighed; this time shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, never mind! Just eat your hamburger.”

  “Alright, alright; we got off on the wrong foot. You were just trying to tell me a little romantic story over dinner. That's cool.” Then Daren affectionately placed his hand on Mary's. “Is that all you need; some roses every now and then or little gifts and things.”

  Mary nodded with her cute, pouty face.

  The story certainly did bring things back into focus for Daren. For a while, the results took his mind off Grandma Trivelli. But through a remotely connected series of events, Amber had been inadvertently placed in danger. And it was all Jim's fault!

  * * *

  There's an interesting phenomenon of Ms. Lutrova and her control of Jim. Only a day after Thanksgiving, he had already begun thinking about her. Recall that during the holiday, Jim had gotten frustrated with her little game of Rumplestiltskin. With such a gorgeous wife
who offers spicy sex and a beautiful mistress down the street, what need did Jim have with some old woman orchestra teacher who offered nothing more than nightly fantasies?

  But it's not so easy to get rid of Ms. Lutrova! That algae-green sex potion in the glass vials was causing prolonged nightly erections accompanied by intense, erotic dreams. Ms. Lutrova used this as a portal to continue tormenting her victim so that by the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend, Jim awoke in the predawn hours to go down in the basement and sit in the center of a six-pointed-star that was formed with quartz crystals at the points. In his hand was the outdated palm pilot. The screen was a Google Earth satellite image of what he believed to be Ms. Lutrova's home—near the place where Jim saw her walking on the morning of All Saints Day. Aware of flurries now outside, Jim imagined his consciousness to be broken into millions of pieces scattering along Ms. Lutrova's house with the falling snow. Through this technique, Jim used the palm pilot as a crystal ball to remotely view the activities of Ms. Lutrova and possibly connect with her.

  Inside the house, the orchestra teacher lay in her bed in a half-dreamy state. She spoke to Jim, “Do you know what comes to mind when I think of snow?”

  “What's that?” Jim lay beside her, under the blankets and cuddling.

  “It reminds me of when I was a little girl and would get all bundled up to go outside and play. Maybe I'd go sledding or build a snowman; get cold after a while and then come in the house for some hot cocoa with marshmallows.”

  Jim smiled, “I remember that as a kid, too.”

  Jim clicked the palm pilot screen off and set it on the floor. There was too much of the supposed telepathic communication between him and Ms. Lutrova. How much of what Jim experienced was nothing more than fantasy? That fantastic world where he and the orchestra teacher were at the brink of making real contact began to crumble. They might have had a mutual attraction, Jim gave his theory that much. But the intensity of attraction was surely more on Jim's part. Any normal woman wouldn't bother with a man with such obsession, not to mention a married man.

  What Jim really should have been doing at that moment was holding a flower and plucking out the petals while chanting, “She loves me; she loves me not.” For no sooner after his sobering moment of reality, Jim was pulled into a different picture frame where he and Ms. Lutrova shared mutual concerns. Their thought processes and moods were in tune with one another's. As Jim questioned and doubted the reality of what he believed, Ms. Lutrova did the same. The two stood just inches from one another, yet separated by a wall. It was only necessary to walk some feet to get around this wall and finally be together. And yet they remained trapped, touching the wall, calculating what he or she might be thinking and feeling.

  Throughout the week, Jim noticed a peculiar habit in which he would pay attention to little scraps of paper or small items on the ground. He would most often zoom in on these items in his driveway or near the house. Smiley-face or heart stickers that probably came from the kids, little folded up pieces of paper, even a nearly deflated balloon which had somehow blown in his driveway; these items gave hope to a possible calling, a test to see if Jim was connected. And might there be a message on one of these pieces of paper?

  It could have been any simple, vague message such as, “Ms. L”—the orchestra teacher's initials.

  Maybe it would be a smiley face and the word, “Hi”.

  Or perhaps, “Do you feel the same way?”

  Or even, “Call me!” followed by Ms. Lutrova's number.

  Only a person in tune with this world would be looking for messages like these. The recipient would hear it loud and clear and finally have the bravery to act.

  But this was silly. No woman would ever go so far as to leave little, subliminal notes to be found. A woman hides in dark corners, hoping to be discovered, sometimes coming out to shake her tail in a man's face, only to run away with, “I wasn't giving you any signs!”

  It was the man who needed to drop little hints and finally take charge. How foolish Jim felt! He should have simply walked up to her door and knocked. “Hi, I'm Jim.” But then what? Hopefully Ms. Lutrova understood the complexity. Surely she realized that a married man had much to think about before making his move, if he ever made his move.

  But the scraps of paper were an excellent idea. Why couldn't Jim have written sweet nothings and let them blow out his window while driving past Ms. Lutrova's house on the highway?

  “Thinking of you.”

  “Wishing to hold you.”

  “Is it mutual?”

  Like kisses that blow across the wind, the messages would somehow carry to Ms. Lutrova's doorstep so that when stepping outside for the mail, she would discover them. It might buy Jim some time; let her know that he wasn't a lost cause. And surely Ms. Lutrova would make her awareness of these sweet nothings known through some sign. It might even give Jim the confidence needed to finally initiate contact.

  Ah, but Jim couldn't do this. What if the orchestra teacher had a family member living with her who might discover these notes? Then what? Sweet nothings were out of the question!

  So Jim went back to despair, realizing that time was running out and that he was falling short from meeting obligation. All this silly nonsense of letting sweet nothings blow out the window; if a real man was going to play that game he would leave a rose at a woman's doorstep or lay it on the windshield of her car. But again, Jim couldn't do this. There might be a family member who recognized it.

  Then it hit Jim like a flash of light! If Ms. Lutrova was truly in tune with whatever world Jim believed they shared, she would recognize the peculiar presence of rose petals scattered along her lawn. He could walk past her house in the predawn hours and let the petals scatter, perhaps along the driveway. When backing her car from the driveway or looking out the window, she would see the petals and suspect that Jim had left them there.

  This brilliant idea took place on a Friday afternoon, one week after Black Friday. And Jim nearly drove his cable utility truck to the Mapleview flower shop. But the orchestra teacher wouldn't work on Saturdays and the petals would surely blow away by the time she would get out to her car and hopefully see them. It was better to do it on a Monday.

  But having rose petals on Ms. Lutrova's driveway Monday morning presented a problem. The Mapleview flower shop was closed on Sunday. It would be necessary to purchase a rose on Saturday then leave it sit in the truck for nearly 48 hours. This would introduce the possibility of the rose petals wilting, and Ms. Lutrova did not deserve wilted roses! There could be only the best for her!

  So Jim walked into the Mapleview flower shop on Monday afternoon where Mary had greeted him at the front counter. As usual, Mary was pleasant and friendly. “Hi, welcome to Mapleview Flowers. What can I do for you?”

  “Yeah, um, do you sell roses, like a single rose?”

  Mary seemed delighted. “Sure we do! Come on back to our cooler. We have a wide assortment of fresh flowers.”

  Jim followed behind until reaching the glass, refrigerated case that contained roses of various colors.

  Mary had such a comforting, trustful way in asking, “Now can I ask, who are you buying the rose for? Is she a friend of yours; maybe someone you are interested in; a first date; or perhaps that special someone?”

  Jim knew what Mary was asking. The color of a rose signified certain things or matched a particular occasion. From what he remembered, yellow stated a friendship where-as red stated more of a romantic attraction. Unsure of what Ms. Lutrova was to him, Jim realized that the relationship they shared was very special. It was much deeper than a friendship and much deeper than a thoughtless, extramarital affair. There certainly could be romance between them, but so pure and innocent. For that matter, Jim decided red would be the appropriate color. “I'm going with red. I need a red rose.”

  “Red? Okay, she's really special.”

  “Absolutely!” Jim agreed.

  Jim paid cash for the rose, of course, and then threw away the receipt. C
arrying the flower out of the store and into his truck was extremely awkward. What if Kimberly or Amber happened to be driving through town and saw him? He could appear disappointed and mention that the rose was a little “just because” surprise.

  Finally safe in the truck with the rose in the passenger seat, Jim drove to the wayside parking lot of Hidden Lake Forest Preserve and parked. He felt so sorry for the delicate creature. Its destiny was to be delivered to the hands of a very, special lady; perhaps a first date or even a loving wife whose husband wished to surprise her on a Monday night. Instead, the petals were delicately pulled so carefully in such a way that there would be no tearing or what might appear to be scraps. Again, only the best for Ms. Lutrova! The rose shouldn't have felt so abused. It was, after all, being offered as a testament and sign to Jim's feelings for a special woman. And the same could be said of tomorrow's rose and the day after, and the day after that. Petals would be sprinkled along Ms. Lutrova's front lawn every Tuesday through Friday morning, to be blown and scattered in places where Ms. Lutrova might find them. Perhaps nothing would be recognized on the first morning or two. But after a week, Jim envisioned her entire front lawn would be littered with the petals of red roses.

  While collecting the petals into a plastic bag for the following morning, Jim had the sudden concern that perhaps sprinkling rose petals on someone's front lawn might have been considered a magick spell. After all, Ms. Lutrova was a witch, and she might identify the act as some strange spell. What if the activity suggested something other than symbolizing love and attraction?

  Fortunately for Jim he had his crystal ball for acquiring such knowledge. The outdated palm-pilot-styled phone provided immediate access to the Internet. The search phrase “sprinkling rose petals on someone's lawn” didn't provide much information. The results were mostly articles on improving landscaping. There were a couple articles on increasing romance in the bedroom with rose petals.