by Shara Lanel
Diera whirled away from the window. They were vicious memories, and the reason she didn’t visit Maeve as much as she should. When she was away from here, she was a normal computer programmer, her geekiness hidden under soft femininity. Well, normal except for her photography and her knack for finding people, which had to do with taking pictures of things she wasn’t supposed to see and sticking her nose where it wasn’t wanted.
She climbed the last five steps from the landing to the third floor and dragged her bag down the hall to the first door on the left.
* * * *
Holt always performed his rituals skyclad—naked in other words—and Maeve respected his privacy. Her bedroom was on the second floor, but she spent most of her time in the kitchen or the garden or her crafts room on the ground floor. She never bothered him on the third floor since he’d started renting from her two months ago.
He was once again seeking clarity and insight into his coffin dreams and the mysterious woman in them. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind all day at work.
It really sucked that the rest of Richmond got Sunday as their day of rest or of church at least, but his slave driver boss, Al Graves, had ordered his three graphic artists to get their butts into the office early and show him some stellar ideas for their current client, Privates by LeClaire, an underwear line for men and women. So Holt had left before having a chance to talk to Maeve about Diera’s appearance in Richmond last night. Unfortunately, none of the designers’ ideas had satisfied the boss. Memories of his tirade were making it hard for Holt to concentrate on his ritual as he poured salt onto the hardwood floor in the shape of a circle, lit a single candle, and settled into a meditation pose.
His room was sparsely furnished, leaving him plenty of space to perform rituals in the center. He lit a sage wand to cleanse the air and murmured the words to summon the Watchtowers. Once the cleansing was complete, Holt closed his eyes, inhaled deeply … and swore. Not out loud. He didn’t want to invoke any negative magick inadvertently, but his thoughts whirled around possible underwear ads and how he might conserve oxygen if he were indeed buried alive. This sucked. He wasn’t going to accomplish a thing if he didn’t relax, so he resorted to one surefire method of calming his mind.
He opened his eyes, focused on the candle flame for a few moments, and took another deep breath. He closed his eyes again and placed his left hand on his left knee. With his right hand, he reached between his legs and cupped his balls, gently massaging. The goal was not arousal, which was sometimes used in sex magick, but simply relaxation.
The tips of his fingers stroked just behind his balls, then rolled higher to the base of his cock. Thumb and forefinger circled the shaft and pulled upward with light squeezes to the head. As he stroked, blood flowed to the organ and it gradually stiffened. He found himself picturing Diera’s face lit by the parking lot lights at Byrd Park, gold tinting her red locks, eyes shadowed, lips glistening. He increased the pressure and speed of his strokes, though still keeping them unhurried. This wasn’t about an end result. This was about clarity, seeing her, learning more about her. How was she meant to affect his life?
He knew one effect she was having on him already, as a tiny drop of pre-cum soaked his finger. He slowed his touches and focused on inhaling and exhaling, thinking about his breath and the air around him, picturing the candle flame. A new image entered his consciousness. Diera’s body, skyclad except for a sheer robe hemmed with red velvet, dancing about an altar under the light of the full moon. She was beautiful, peaceful, and power emanated from her pores, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She was a goddess, beautiful, seductive, ancient.
But that image faded into the mist before he could decipher its meaning, replaced by a far more erotic one. Diera still danced, but this time completely nude and not outside. She was in this bedroom, lit by candles, surrounded by a red aura, and her eyes were smoky, focused on someone … him. Her petite fingers embraced one luscious breast, exploring both the feel and the feelings it created as she pinched her own erect nipple while he watched. With her other hand, she stroked lower, past tight red curls, into the V between her thighs. Trails of liquid glistened against her skin, tangible evidence of her arousal. One fingertip parted her labia, revealing a hot pink nub awaiting her tentative touch. Holt’s body burned and he ached to touch her, but all he could do was watch as her fingers stroked and she moaned.
*
The door opened and smoke circled into Diera’s nostrils. It was from a white candle lit in the center of the room and a charcoaled bunch of herbs sitting on a clay trivet next to the candle. Beyond the candle … Diera’s mouth dropped open. Holy shit! It was a naked man—in her bedroom! Why was there a naked man in her bedroom?
She registered dark wavy hair, heavy eyelids, slightly opened mouth, strong cheekbones … Oh, my God, it was Holt, the witch from last night. What the hell was he doing in her bedroom?
But, boy, he was a masterpiece! Sun-darkened skin covered Michelangelo shoulders and scrumptious pecs. He was sitting Indian-style inside a circle that seemed to be made out of salt, white and crunchy. Her eyes drew naturally lower, following the sparse curls of his chest hair to his divine abs, and lower still to…
What was he doing?! Well, that seemed fairly obvious, once her mind grasped it, as his fingers rose and lowered, from balls to the smooth, purple head. Another “holy shit!” didn’t seem adequate to describe her shock at finding a naked man masturbating in her bedroom. Here of all places! He seemed too absorbed in his own pleasure to have noticed her entry, and Diera found herself fascinated. Because of her early, evil introduction to sex, she’d had no experience since then with a naked male, and the fact that he was acting in so unself-conscious a manner made her loath to interrupt.
Would he come? What would his face look like when he did so? What was he picturing in his mind as his hand gripped and released his cock?
Should she keep watching him? No! What was she thinking? She should be calling the cops, is what she should be doing, but somehow she couldn’t move. Her vision was filled with the foreign view. What would it feel like to touch his dick just because she wanted to? She’d never touched High Priest Dave’s shaft or any other part of him. He’d spread and tied her to an altar in his basement, an offering to Lucifer. That horrible room had been painted black, even the floor, and it had smelled so dank. And the sweat of the coven members sheathed in black robes had reeked right along with the putrid incense.
At least she could acknowledge now that he’d been crazy. It hadn’t been her fault, not even a teeny tiny bit. She hadn’t enticed or seduced him. She didn’t need to be punished.
She sighed and dropped her bag with a bang to the hardwood floor.
Holt’s eyes burst open, and on his face blossomed the most rapid blush she’d ever seen.
“What are you doing here?” The fact that they both said this in unison should have been campy, but she didn’t laugh. He didn’t either, but he did quickly extinguish the candle with a few mumbled words. Then he brushed the salt into a pile with his palms so he could scoop it into a small bowl. The blush quickly faded and he didn’t lunge for his clothes, giving Diera the impression that his embarrassment had more to do with what he’d been doing and perhaps thinking than because of his nudity.
And why was he so fascinated by the damn bowl?
“Holt!”
“Huh?” He looked up and blushed again.
“Why are you in my bedroom?”
He looked around at the heavy trunk, antique dresser, and trundle bed. Diera had inherited these items from her grandmother when she was five, and she’d been told they’d come over from Europe on one of the earlier expeditions to Jamestown. She’d left them because she’d wanted none of the memories. She’d chosen modern furniture for her new start when she’d moved out. But atop these dark, familiar pieces sprawled an array of unfamiliar objects, like men’s briefs—she could only hope they were clean—and dozens of multi-colored candles
and laminated ads perched on cardboard easels. Not her stuff. Not Aunt Maeve’s either, and a sinking suspicion entered her consciousness that Maeve had been making more changes besides becoming a witch and redecorating downstairs. No wonder she’d rushed off to a “meeting” before Diera could grill her.
“Does Maeve know you’re here?” Holt asked from the floor, avoiding her question.
“Yes.”
“And she didn’t tell you about our arrangement?” He’d gathered the last of the salt into the bowl, so he looked up into her eyes.
A horrible thought filled Diera’s mind. Arrangement? Had her Aunt Maeve taken a younger lover? Her mouth fell open. “What arrangement?”
The man gracefully found his feet while holding the bowl of salt in one hand and the candle in the other. He didn’t even teeter for balance for a moment, but now she could see all of him—clearly, far too clearly. His legs were long and muscular, an athlete’s legs. Curls of hair covered a good portion of those legs, making them look all male. She risked looking a bit higher, and saw that the hair thinned at the top of his thighs then became denser all around his semi-erect cock. And that cock looked big, really big. And as she stared at it, it seemed to bob a bit in response, grow a bit straighter. How fascinating. Holt shifted his weight to his other leg.
“Your aunt rented me this room about two months ago,” his voice rumbled, and her nipples responded immediately, hardening against the lace of her bra. “So, technically, this is my room now. I have a lease.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off his naked form. She knew she needed to concentrate on the conversation. Some argument was required, but she found herself licking her lips as she stared at his thick length. A couple of her brash co-workers had gone on for ten minutes one morning about blow job techniques, whether giving a blow job could be just as satisfying for the woman as the man. Linda Donahue had sworn that by relaxing the throat and sucking her man in deep she got just as turned on as if he’d been twiddling her clit. Renee Jenks had said she about wanted to gag every time her man tried to shove his “thang” into her mouth. Diera found herself wondering if Linda could be right, if sucking on Holt’s penis like a lollipop could bring her intense pleasure, because just thinking about it was turning her on like crazy.
“Diera?” He stepped closer, the movement shaking his cock, which was now as erect as a flagpole. She wanted to touch it. It looked smooth, yet bumpy. Was it soft or rough? He strode across the room, pausing just in front of her. He reached around her and closed the door. “Diera?”
Maybe she was bewitched. Bullshit. There were no such things as spells or magic. What she was feeling was serious lust, heightened by her overall inexperience and the fact that Holt’s body was constructed like a Greek god’s. That was all. But she honestly felt bespelled as she reached out tentative fingers. She had to know what that rosy head felt like. Was that wetness glinting out of the center? What would he do when she touched him? Would he close his eyes and open his mouth in pleasure, the same as when he’d touched himself?
*
Holy crap! What was she doing? Diera’s hand was reaching for him. Her eyes hadn’t left his cock since he’d stood up. Holt had set the candle and salt on a chair as he’d walked toward her, wanting his hands free. They were tingling with the desire to strip her gauzy, pink blouse away from her silky skin. He could see a dark lace bra through the sheer fabric, and her tits pushed against it, demanding escape. She’d bit and licked her lips as he’d walked toward her, watching the movement of his cock between his legs. He’d never had a woman watch him—it—so intently before. He’d grown hard as iron from her attention.
Yeah, he’d been embarrassed when he’d heard the bag hit the floor and realized someone was watching him. He’d gotten carried away, pleasuring himself and no longer concentrating on the ritual. Diera had inflamed his thoughts and his body, and here she was in the flesh with a look of longing on her face.
Her fingers reached out, lightly touching the head of his cock. And he did nothing to stop her, didn’t remind her that she’d been upset with him, didn’t remind her what they’d been talking about. No, if she wanted to touch him, he’d let her. Oh, yeah.
The light touches would’ve tickled if he hadn’t been in this extreme state of arousal. He wondered if her panties were wet, too. He was tempted to finger her stiff tits, but he didn’t want to do anything to break this spell. She hesitated.
“Touch me, Diera,” he said in a low voice. “Use both your hands, don’t be afraid.”
She didn’t look into his eyes or at his moving lips. With her left hand, she trailed fingers over the top of his shaft to the base until she could stroke his balls in an exploratory way. Her right hand trailed along the protruding vein on the back of his cock up to the purplish head. Her thumb brushed the liquid away, and he moaned. He couldn’t help himself. His knees were ready to buckle, but he held them stiff. His siren had lost her inhibitions and he was reaping the rewards.
He closed his eyes, as her grip on his balls firmed, became more determined. She began to move her hands in the way she must have watched him do in the circle on the floor.
“Oh, my God, Diera.” He placed his palms on her shoulders to stay upright, as pleasure shot through him in waves. He’d already primed himself earlier and now that this dream woman was touching him freely, asking nothing in return, he knew he was going to lose himself to the eroticism.
“Harder,” he whispered, sensing that she was curious about what he liked best. “A steady rhythm. That’s it.”
His fingers flexed on her shoulders. He opened his eyes and saw that now her eyes were locked on his face, watching his expression to see what movements drew the most pleasure. He smiled, but then her fingers and thumb squeezed the head of his cock tightly. He closed his eyes again. “Oh, shit, that feels good. So good.”
The fingers slid down his shaft and back to the head, and her left hand never stopped massaging his balls, playing with the area just behind them. He forced his eyes open again. “Diera, I’m going to come. Your hands feel so good on me … like this … I’m not going to be able to help it.”
He wanted to pull her closer, kiss her, bring her to the brink with him, but she seemed so intent, almost like he was a science experiment. That, even more than her touches, is what sent him over the edge with an unrestrained yell.
His hands slipped to her arms, holding her tightly, as his pelvis bucked. His balls released their tension and cum shot out of his cock, which was pressed back by her hands against his stomach. The elixir warmed his skin.
He opened his eyes again and saw that she was examining her slightly damp hands as if she’d never seen them before.
“What did I do?” she asked, in an almost childlike voice.
“Well, I’d say that was obvious. I can’t believe it, though.” He smoothed his forefinger over her cheek. “That was an incredibly nice surprise, I gotta tell you.”
She stepped back, suddenly looking horrified. “But why did I do that? I’ve never done that before. Why did I do that?”
He touched her chin with his thumb. “I don’t know, sweet, but it’s okay. It felt good. No harm done.”
Suddenly tears sprang in her eyes. “How could I do that? Why did I do that?”
Well, that was his payment not putting a stop to something obviously too good to be true. Now he’d be dealing with a bawling woman accusing him of forcing her somehow, which he totally hadn’t.
“Diera, why don’t you come sit on the bed?” She looked stricken. “Or on the trunk if you don’t like the bed? Here’s a clean shirt, if you want to wipe your hands.”
He guided her by just touching her elbow. She sat on the bulky wood trunk and he grabbed a pair of denim shorts from the floor and pulled them on. He wasn’t quite sure what part of this thing had her so upset. Had she forgotten he was a witch, then suddenly remembered? Was she a split personality and embarrassment had finally set in? Maybe she was a nymphomaniac who had just fallen off the wago
n. Of course, just the fact that she was a woman meant that her prerogative was to change her mind at lightning fast speeds. He only hoped that what he’d been imagining while in the center of a magick circle had not in any way influenced Diera’s action, because he had the feeling that would cause him even more problems in the long run than this little episode alone.
She was sobbing on the trunk so he approached her cautiously. He wanted to take her in his arms and console her, but she might take offense at that. A shirt might help, so he detoured to his dresser and found one that read Richmond Braves. He slid it over his head after cleaning off his stomach with some tissues, then sat on the very edge of the trunk, sidling closer when she didn’t start screaming.
*
Diera’s sobs had calmed to hiccups, but she kept her face down so that her chin practically touched her chest. She was mortified on so many levels that she couldn’t even begin to explain what had happened or why she’d reacted so abysmally. She knew Holt hadn’t coerced her in any way, other than being naked in what he appeared to believe was his bedroom. A man had the right to expect privacy, she supposed, but then a man should lock his damn door when living in the house of a single woman.
Her eyes radared in on Holt’s as he sat awkwardly, looking somewhat sheepish, on the very edge of the trunk. “What if my Aunt Maeve had walked in on you?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“She understands about doing rituals skyclad. She would have knocked and waited at the very least, and since I’ve lived here she’s never even come up to the third floor.”
He reached his hand out, as if he wanted to touch her or move closer, but she scowled at him and he dropped it.
“I have never in my life ever done something like that … ever,” she said.