By Harlotte Blackwood
A work in progress
NSFW Mature content
Bathed in the eerie glow of innumerable guttering black candles, the wytch Hekataea knelt at the centre of her magick summoning circle. Her hooded ebon robes hanging loosely about her as she worked her arcane craft. Inscribing the last of the conjuration symbols upon her chamber floor as she whispered thaumaturgic incantations. Her excitation reaching a fever pitch as her painstaking works at last neared completion.
Wyrd shadows of inexplicable origin beginning to gather all about the wytch, forming lurid and unholy shapes against the walls of her chambers. As mundane reality began to warp and deform in response to Hekataea’s arcane manipulations of the laws of the natural world. Her ranting recitations cutting through the surface of wholesome actuality, as a keen thin blade slices through innocent trembling flesh.
The young but supernaturally gifted wytch was otherwise naked but for her sables. Her cabalistic vestments accompanied only by the proliferation of amulets and tokens which adorned her thin wrists and narrow ankles. The rings she bore on each long articulate fingers and the several chokers fixed about her slender shapely throat. All of which were marked extensively with protective runes, and etched with arcane sigils of great potency. And all of which jingled and jangled with a gaiety of tone, which seemed almost obscene in contrast to the wytch’s dread utterances and ululations.
Hekataea’s body now moved in a ghastly and contorted fashion, as her works drew nigh unto their conclusion. Perspiration rising upon her ghostly pale white flesh in response her exertions, but also her exhilaration that soon she would have her wicked way with nature. Hexen magickal potential seeping into the very air as her spell weaving grew in potency. Much akin to the fashion in which a drop of black ink stains a vessel of clean and wholesome water.
Until at last the wytch closed the innermost ring of her invocation hex around her. Casting her gleaming dark eyes carefully over the entire vast inscription she had so lovingly and cunningly created. Reassuring herself that no error had been made, before putting aside her charcoal stick of daemon bone roasted in wyrm fire and infused with the blood of harpies.
And thus satisfied with the perfection of her laborious efforts, Hekataea put flame to a pair of braziers she had carefully positioned within the outer circumference of her great magickal device. The heat prompting dense intoxicating vapours to rise from the shallow vessels suspended above.
Each brazier was contained within its own binding circle, and the whole intersecting arrangement contained within the enormous conjuration wheel. The design of which covered an area sufficient to enclose almost the entirety of Hekataea’s chamber. With the wytch at the centre of it all, enclosed within a guardian hex. A pentagram of curious and intricate design, powerful enough to keep her safe from any foreseeable harm.
And as she waited for the braziers to heat completely, Hekataea drank from a small wooden cup containing a dense green fluid. The potent potion inspiring erotic exhilaration and libidinous enlivenment, the moment it touched the wytch’s black stained lips.
And almost reverentially putting the cup aside again when she had taken sufficient, the wytch began to sing the final invocation spell. It’s haunting and eerie occult strains causing reality to shimmer and flicker queerly, as it warped and bent torturously with the power of the wytch’s wilful and wanton intent. The imbibed potion beginning to heat Hekataea’s blood and set her heart racing, before she had completed even the first verse.
Nonetheless the wytch summoner focussed her will and compelled her mind to concentration. While the potion filled her body with a carnal euphoria, which prompted the most delicious and lascivious unchaste urgency.
The intoxicating effect of the philtre combining with her warping of reality, to inspire a glorious sensation of quickening and satyric need somewhat dissociative in character. Much akin to the sensation of projecting ones consciousness beyond the confines of mortal physicality, and into the elsewhere plane of the beyond. Or perhaps the experience was more akin to one of plummeting as from a great height, into some ceaseless and unending stygian abyss.
But upon such matters Hekataea mused but briefly, for she had far more pressing matters to occupy her covetous thoughts. Her desires and intent now piqued and proud to their fullest extent, as the potion worked its prurient narcotic magick.
Although the wytch had not consumed the potion for its aphrodisiac qualities, there would be no need of that. For what was about to transpire atop the highest chamber of Hekataea’s tower, was her ultimate sensual fantasy and most enduring salacious wish. The fulfilment of her long held wanton heart’s desire, and her most carnal imaginings given the breath of life.
Hekataea had imbibed the potion for the heightened powers of stamina and endurance it conferred. For the robustness of corporeal integrity it conferred and the exaggerated potency of appetite which was its poisonous blessing. For it was the wytch’s lascivious will for this experience to last for as long as she could possibly bear.
Indeed it was Hekataea’s most fervent desire to indulge her blasphemous fantasies, even unto the very farthest limits of greedy sinful rapacity. To sup deeply from the forbidden cup of heresy to the fullest possible extent her mortal frame could withstand. To immerse herself as deeply into the turgid waters of sacrilegious profanity as any mortal ever had.
For it was Hekataea’s desire to summon unto her daemon succubi. To cast them in the bondage of magickal restraint and with them have her wicked way.
It had taken the wytch years of dedicated study and single minded practice to perfect the summoning of daemons. And longer still to sufficiently refine the safe conjuration and effective binding of succubi. For the bending of entities such as they to one’s domination was a difficult and hazardous undertaking indeed.
For creatures such as succubi are as powerful of will as they are potent of sexual rapacity. No shrinking violets they by any measure and likewise not easily made to succumb in submission to any feeble or impotent bondage. Nor likely to allow themselves to be given over to insufficient magickal bindings. But likely in the extreme to exact a ferocious retribution, for any effrontery of limp and lifeless attempts at such.
But the wytch was confident that this would not be her dire fate. Indeed she was certain that it would be the manifold pleasures of mingling with the succubi which she would suffer. And to that end Hekataea did not want her first experience to be marred in any fashion. Neither by exhaustion or the base limitations of mortality, nor by weakness of somatic fortitude. For although Hekataea was by no means a weakling, what she was about to endure would test even the most robust of frame.
For the erotic potency and sexual prowess, of those entities classified as daemonium succuba-lilin, was legendary. And it was Hekataea’s intent that the creatures she meant to summon, might drive her to the very limits of sensual excess. To fulfil for her every wicked and unchaste fancy for which her covetous heart did urgently crave.
For Hekataea wanted more than anything she had ever desired before. To suffer the full extent of the wanton magicks and wicked seductions of the succubi. To know the touch of their queer unholy flesh and delight in the peculiarities of their singular physiology. And Hekataea’s entire being thrilled with anticipation, as the hour of her most carnal heart’s desires fulfilment drew nigh.
At length a sensation of intense and urgent arousal began to rapidly inundate the wytch’s body profoundly. And Hekataea’s voice became heavy and hoarse with want as she sang the final summoning verses. The potion flooding swiftly through her veins and arteries and setting her aflame with the urgency of need. Indeed lighting her entire being ablaze with aching libidinous craving and ravening lustful hunger.
The wytch growing increasingly eager to yield to her mounting lust. As the philtre set her sex to delicious pulsing and her heart to racing with sacrilegious yearning. Such that she was compelled to exert no small effort of will, in keeping her hands to herself in her agitation.
And as Hekataea finally completed the incantation, two unholy forms began gradually to materialize before the now voluminously fuming braziers.
The emerging entities shimmering as sunlight shimmers on a still pond, as they began gradually to corporealize. Gaining solidity and form as they transitioned from the daemonic realm and into the mortal plane. Hekataea’s eyes widening at their auroral emergence, as a gust of heat from the hell from which they were summoned kissed the wytch’s naked flesh.
The perspiration which had formed on Hekataea’s skin evaporating in an instant before the hellish gust. Creating a fine mist of vapour about her as the energy of latent magickal potential electrified the very air.
The heat of her arousal combining with the heat of the daemons presence, compelling her to part her robe and allow the hood to fall from her brow.
The potent elixir Hekataea had consumed, elevating her senses to ever greater heights of insistent stimulation, as the ritual rapidly progressed. The wytch’s flesh fairly thrilling with the power of the thaumaturgic energy which she had so cunningly woven into the very fabric of reality.
The queer warping of actuality she had induced, lending an even greater thrill of vertiginous exhilaration to her erotic hunger. As her magick created a separate dimension removed entirely from both the daemonic and mortal realm.
A dimension departed from all others wherein the wytch might exert her dominance. Her supreme will the very tapestry of that world within worlds which she had fabricated. Her cunning artifice and burning carnality representing the very thread from which it was stitched.