Spell-Crafted for Pleasure

Salem placed a hand over her pounding heart. She couldn’t catch a full breath in the wake of her last powerful orgasm.

She realized how sweaty she was, and hoped her sticky body bore a sensual perspiration glow as opposed to locker room stink. Not that Kane was any better off than she. He’d gone south of her belly button and stayed there for quite a while. An oral ívking—adventure—between her legs, so to speak. He seemed to have collapsed after getting her off for the third time.

She reached her other hand out to touch his soft reddish-black hair as its tight curls cascaded across her naked thighs. His breathing told her that he, too, was exhausted. As odd a time as it was to think of Martin Luther King’s famous speech, the words, “Free at last! Free at last!” rang in her head. Kane was free. And his blood-brother…well…he’d be kept busy in his long confinement.

Pinioned under his weight and tangled in a confused mess of jeans and undergarments, she figured until she could catch her breath, she’d just stay where she was. On the floor of her shop. With the front door unlocked and within view of the windows. If someone walked in or glanced in the window in passing, so be it. The only folks who came into her shop were open-minded sorts, anyway. Puritans certainly didn’t whip out plastic at a place like hers–at least not that they let anyone know about. Brown paper wrappers had been invented to hide the mail order sins of the holier-than-thou. A multitude of sins. A fine collection of sins. Salem displayed her sins, however, in a glass curio case for the curiously errant to peruse and purchase.

Salem felt fairly certain she couldn’t walk, much less rise from the floor at this point. If the ultra-moral right decided to picket her shop, again, she’d just have to let them. Hell, she’d invite them in to meet the new man in her life. And such a man! Even the most uptight anal-retentive I-only-do-it-missionary-style with the husband kind of woman would like Kane!

She managed an exhausted, ‘wow,’ which was quickly answered by a single-word reply from Kane.

“More,” he uttered. He slid his hands in-between her legs.

“Oh, no. No more. I can’t,” she begged. “Kane, no more.”

Kane chuckled, the sound rising low and teasing from his throat. He slid two fingers into her swollen, sensitive pussy. “I need you,” he whispered.

“Can we, at least, get off the floor?” Salem asked, squirming as Kane inserted a thin, dark finger.

“The floor is nice,” he replied. “You on the floor is nicer.”

Salem wasn’t sure she could muster the energy to command Kane to stop diddling her clit long enough for her lock the shop and move their party somewhere else.

How many orgasms could she have before noon?

She knew she was about to head into uncharted waters as Kane reached for the ancient whalebone dildo that for so long had been both prison and refuge to him.

“Exquisite,” he whispered.

“You do good work,” Salem replied. “For a spirituous being only recently made corporeal, you do damned fine work.”

“I’m not talking about the tool. You are the true treasure of this shop. You are exquisite. Remarkable. Thoroughly enjoyable. It’s time to show you what this thing can really do.”

Salem wasn’t about to argue. One does not argue with a horny Norseman recently given a second chance at life.

With unimaginable, unearthly skill, Kane re-introduced Salem to her most interesting acquisition to date: dildo, Balaenae Eburneolus, Icelandic. She’d met Mr. Whalebone dick before, but oh, my…not quite like this…

Salem put every other thought out of her mind as climax number four came crashing in on her.

* * *

At the end of October when the veil between light and dark was at its thinnest, her shop received a number of unique visitors seeking celebratory items for Samhain and various winter rites. They came veiled, hooded, covered by shroud or shadow. This was the time of year that made her cash register sing. Salem’s Fine Collection of Sins was the only occult shop for a hundred miles, and October was her money-making month. She generally raked in enough dough to close the shop for three weeks in January and fly south for a holiday.

This October had been a strange, wild ride.

Her poor little familiars were exhausted from identifying shadow from flesh six hours a day, five days a week—closed on Sundays and Mondays. Her pet white rats, Dax and Pheelyx, lived in the shop and they let her know when it was the walking wounded or living dead coming to call.

The veil must have been stretched pretty darn taught this October, as the chirps and squeaks from ‘the girls’ had been nonstop. Seems every earthbound shade, spirit, wraith and demon needed something she had to offer. They tried to act human. They really did, bless their decaying hearts.

Creatures of the night wear thin disguises. As long as they had cash, she didn’t care if a customer was flesh and blood, undead or somewhere in-between. The rats made a fuss when a negative soul breezed in and sat up like trained pups when a light-being entered the shop. Her rats were so finely attuned and nimble that they were able to walk the narrow wire edge between darkness and light, playing both sides of the line. Salem was so well grounded, by spells even on the soles of her shoes, that although she recognized the spirituous, she wasn’t drawn to cross over to their side of the fence.

In the business of ritual supplies and erotic antiquities for a solid nine years, Salem Grier had become more than just slightly jaded to ethereal beings in borrowed bodies and things that go bump in the night. Her shop was protected in all ten directions by sacred symbols and binding spells.