SexMagick Read online

  SexMagick

  Women Conjuring Erotic Fantasy

  Edited by

  Cecilia Tan

  Circlet Press, Inc.

  Cambridge, MA

  SexMagick edited by Cecilia Tan

  Circlet Press, Inc. 39 Hurlbut St Cambridge, MA 02138

  http://www.circlet.com/

  Copyright © 1993, 1997 by Circlet Press, Inc.

  Cover art Copyright © 1995 by Robert Rausch

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 978-1-61390-073-4

  Publication Date: September 1993

  First digital publication: February 2013

  This electronic version was prepared in-house at Circlet Press.

  "Pipe Dreams" by S.N. Lewitt previously appeared in slightly different version in All Hallow's Eve, Walker & Co, 1992

  Individual copyrights to the works represented in this volume are held by the respective authors and artists of the works.

  License Notes

  Please do not support online piracy of copyrighted works. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the purchaser only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, or if you received this ebook copied from a friend or by other means, please support the writers who made it possible by purchasing a copy yourself. Thank you for your support.

  Please report any problems you find with the ebook to us at [email protected] or by visiting the Bug Report section of our web site (www.circlet.com).

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Burning at the Stake by Reina Delacroix

  Summoning by Cecilia Tan

  Jaguar God by S.G. Johnson

  Braided Bonds by Velma Bowen

  Cora and the Goat by Linda Hooper

  Pipe Dreams by S.N. Lewitt

  Contributor’s Notes

  Introduction

  This is a book about the magic of sex, about the power of erotic energy, about exchange of power, about positive results, told through the wide lens of "fantasy." What this really means is these are stories in which there are no longer any limits to the transformation that can occur, stories in which the magic is real. The magic and myths range equally wide, from Mayan mythology to the Tarot to unknown worlds that come from the depths of a writer's wildest imagination.

  In each tale a woman or man undertakes a journey through ritual, with erotic energy as the fuel which powers them along the path to self-revelation.

  Reading these stories is in itself a form of erotic interaction, is in itself a form of magic, as the visions of six talented women are revealed to you. As such, I hope that you, the reader, will come away from this book with an equally positive transformation and a perhaps a bit of self-revelation of your own.

  Enjoy!

  Cecilia Tan

  Editor/Publisher

  BURNING AT THE STAKE

  Reina Delacroix

  "He lies within, burning, already burning. They have set a fire in his flesh. But soon all shall be burned.... It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended.

  Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind."

  –J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

  When I open my eyes now, all I see is the white-orange of flame. I have been waiting all my life for this moment of loss, of completion, of transcendence. It is time for the ritual to begin. I am ready.

  I am dressed in a simple white cotton dress, almost sheer, little more than a drape, the hem only a few inches below my hips. Under the cloth, my nipples are visible only by shape; not hardened yet, but slightly swollen. There is no indication of the coming dampness between my legs; long before then, the gown will be little more than tatters.

  I have no escort; I must go willingly. And I do, down the long, silent walk to the fields, the full moon dusting my path with its silver glow, making the tree limbs, and the waving grass, shine. At first the light seems faint; then my eyes adjust to the night, and the world is white outlines against the black.

  And the world gets louder in my ears. The wind picks up, and the rustle drives the waves on the lake and the leaves in the trees. Soon it becomes a roar, covering any sound that might dare to compete with it.

  The light changes, too, turning redder and hotter. With the wind came the scent of smoke, but only with the light comes the taste of ashes, the flecks there and gone in the increasing blaze. I am walking into the face of the fire.

  The flames leap hundreds of feet in the air. The wildfire burns just on the other side of the lake narrows, hardly more than a few hundred feet from the clearing where I stop, seeing my fate reflected in the faces that await me.

  The men are waiting in a semicircle that closes behind me like the jaws of a great beast consuming me whole. For a moment I am afraid of their eyes and turn mine to the ground, shy, but then I gather my courage from the roaring flames so close at hand. The heat of the fire masters us all; I look up and see the burning look in their faces, as I feel hot blood flushing my own.

  A single drum begins to beat, slow and steady as a gigantic heart. My feet fall in time as I walk towards the altar. It is the stump of the eldest tree in this area, planed and polished as smooth as a tabletop and as high as my thigh. Its golden-brown whorls flicker in the firelight.

  Behind the stump, between it and the shore, is set a stake, fashioned from a different tree, a white wood so ancient that none remember its making. It is kept in the temple to preserve it, even as I was, until it is needed for use. The full length of it is twelve feet, but it stands a little over eight feet, the balance sunk into the ground for stability. I was measured yesterday, to make sure of the proper height for its placement in the ground.

  * * * *

  The high priest waits there, to ensure that the ceremony proceeds as required, that the raging appetite of the fire is fully sated. I kneel before him and kiss the hem of his robe in reverence, to signal that I am ready.

  The circle closes tighter; I could not break free now even if I had wanted to. How many are there? Fifty? A hundred? No matter; the fire burns in my veins, and I dream of being utterly consumed.

  I feel the priest's hand twining in my hair, bringing me to my feet. He leads me, by the pressure of his hand on the nape of my neck, over to the stake. On the side facing the altar is a wrought-iron hook set into the top of the post, with two chains dangling manacles. He clamps my wrists into them, and the metal is almost icy against my heated skin. The bass drum pounds still; other, sharper, drums now join it and the beating of my heart. Yet they cannot drown out the roaring of the fire.

  He reaches up, with some difficulty, to hook the manacles above my head, my bonds secure yet comfortable, stretching my arms towards the sky. The bottom of the dress still covers me, but only by the barest line of cloth. The firm pressure of his body against mine rubs upward and sideways as he pushes a link over the point of the hook, and I can feel the nubby texture of the linen robe he wears through my flimsy gown, the heaviness of his body pressing it against me. Through I try to remain calm, I cannot help but thrust my body against him, returning the pressure, the several layers sliding in combination and opposition against my nipples and my mound.

  He says nothing, only increases the pressure as he secures the other manacle, pressing me back against the pole. I writhe harder, now conscious of the unyielding wood as well as the tightness of his body.

  He steps back, and I see his face clearly as he turns to the fire. At first he is impassive, and then he looks at me, up and down, and a slow, appraising grin breaks out on his face. He is thinking that I will be a fine sacrifi
ce, a most sacred whore.

  Everything must be done slowly, to invest it with as much meaning and consciousness as possible, to make me aware of each and every gesture and touch, and to build arousal not only in me, but in the watching men. We must all be at our peak for the proper performance of the ceremony, the human fire outstripping the forest fire across the lake.

  He begins by leaning forward and kissing me, a surprisingly chaste kiss, his lips barely meeting mine before he pulls back, his eyes intent on me. It is part of the ritual that I resist at first, and so I remain still, but the first touch of his skin to mine moves me inside, and I know I cannot retain this outward indifference to his touch for long.

  Again he kisses me, this time parting his lips, my lips, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. I close my eyes, focusing on this invasion. His hands reach out, lightly stroking in parallel from my earlobe, along the line of my neck, over my collarbone. The feeling is muted only slightly when his fingers travel over the cotton, over the rise of my breast, teasing my nipples which have hardened. Onward they trace the ripples of my ribs, the jut of my pelvic bones drawing them in to my crotch.

  They stop when they reach my pubic hair, and it is all I can do not to beg him to continue. His thumbs reach down and press against my inner thighs in a gentle massage. I feel myself swelling, opening, as I realize I am at his mercy.

  * * * *

  He is raising the fire inside me, as if the heat behind me is soaking into my body and settling, both wet and hot, in my cunt. I open my eyes again, as he pulls his mouth from me, and his eyes are wide, blazing yellow-gray, locking me to him. Although I am conscious of the audience, I cannot pull my gaze from him. He represents all those bodies, all those cocks, aroused by my heat.

  He smiles again, as I can no longer control my reactions, thrusting my hips forward as he continues to tease me. I feel his fingers gripping harder and harder, and then in one motion he rips the gown upwards, baring me as he pulls the cotton back over my shoulders. I hear the drums fall silent as he releases me, steps back, and gives the audience the full view of my nakedness. Even the roar of the fire seems to recede.

  Two men come up, one on either side of me. They lower my chained hands and lead me around to the other side of the post. The full strength of the fire beats upon this side; I feel it on my back, as they turn me to face the post. The high priest stretches one chain over the top of the stake, so that one falls to each side.

  On this side of the post are two protrusions: a smaller one juts out near my head, and a larger one, carved at a steep upward angle, protrudes a few feet below it. I see that the higher of the two is adjustable, jammed into an upper hole of a series of vertical borings; it sticks out only a couple of inches. But the lower of the two is part of the original tree itself, and is the size of my forearm, carved into a stylized penis.

  Now I understand other measurements they took yesterday which puzzled me at the time, and I feel myself open farther, an empty, gaping hole longing to be filled. The men make as if they are to lift me off my feet. I shake my head. They look to the priest, who nods, and they back away.

  The priest stands at my shoulder, close but not touching, and I hear his words as if from a distance. His voice is low, knowing, almost confidential. "No woman has ever mounted, willingly, unassisted. Is this your intention?"

  I don't trust my own voice; I nod, swallowing hard.

  He smiles again. "Such heat," he says, and raises the chains back to the hook, raising my arms, lifting my breasts, and bringing me close against the post. I am not certain if he was speaking of the fire, which has renewed its roar, or the depth of my longing. What I am certain of, as I feel the hardness of the wooden phallus pressing into my stomach, is that I am desperate to fill myself with it.

  I try grasping the pole and climbing it, but I cannot grab the slippery wood with my sweaty hands. The heat of the fire is on my back like the breath of an eager man, and I am feeling wilder by the moment, aching with the need to be filled.

  I grasp the chains with my hands and lift myself off the ground. I inch my way up, alternating grasp and reach, until I clear the phallus, and then I lower myself the same way, feeling the nudge of the head at the opening and then the way it stretches me wide, wider than I ever imagined possible. My juices have wet not only my labia, but halfway down the insides of my thighs; as I close my thighs to help with the strain on my arms, I lubricate the hard rod as it enters me.

  My toes touch the ground, then the balls of my feet, and I relax my arms, so that the last few inches are rammed into me by my own weight. I groan, and I hear the echo of it in the throats of the circle, as they can see that I am truly impaled on the tree's cock. Already I feel as if I'm going to come just from the sudden fullness, and I remain completely still, wanting to continue to build the feeling, not disperse it in orgasm.

  A shadow falls across the stake, and I feel hands on my neck, which trickle down over my body, the dampness of the gown making it almost transparent to sight and touch. The tips of his fingers follow my spine from nape to tailbone, separate over my ass, and stop at the join of cheek to leg. Again the thumbs loosen the muscles, giving me a sense of continuous penetration far more delicious than one thrust would deliver. Somehow this time I can tell when he is going to tear the back of my dress open, and I tense in anticipation, then relax in relief when the deed is done.

  But instead of moving away to expose me, he drops his hands again, spreading the cheeks of my ass with one hand as the other dips itself in the wetness between my legs. It feels how my lips are parted by the thick shaft, and this last touch is nearly too much: I squirm against the pole and feel the tightening and weakening at the back of my legs that signals how dangerously close orgasm is. I am grinding, losing control as I feel him make a circle with his hand over my asshole, moistening and guiding his cock in one motion as he presses inside of me.

  Then I am sandwiched between him and the post, and my skin itself is on fire, even the parts not touched by flesh or wood. I start to thrash and he bites the back of my neck, pushing me forward so that I take the other wood piece in my mouth. I almost gag, and then my mouth is fiery too: it is pierced and hollowed, thickly coated and filled with sweet butter and cinnamon, encouraging me to suck it as I would a real cock.

  I am filled in all three holes now, jammed to the limit, and I have surrendered all control. His chest slides over my back, rubbing my body in turn against the slick pole. I feel myself entered further as my pelvic muscles clench and loosen, and the rhythmic thrusting drives me to the point of no return. I am moaning, almost shrieking, as my body strains upward and my pelvis seems to dissolve. He comes a moment after I do, with a cry of pure hot joy.

  Yet, as he moves away, I realize that my orgasm has not released me from desire. If anything, it has sharpened my longing. The fire across the water burns no hotter than the fire in my swollen loins. Only total exhaustion can release me from this need. The fire must burn itself out.

  I continue to writhe against the pole, teasing myself now, allowing myself to come close to climax, then stopping, letting the heat spread like liquid through my limbs. I feel as if I'm melting inside. The smoke sears my lungs, and the mingled scent of sweat, ashes, cinnamon, and male and female come makes my head dizzy.

  I stop moving, and offer no resistance as the two men lift me from my impalement and carry me toward the altar, setting me down with care. The altar is as wide as I can reach with my arms. I crouch on my hands and knees like an animal, helpless in the face of my need. I feel more empty than ever, with all my orifices now open with lust.

  The watchers crowd much closer now, eagerly awaiting their chance at their victim. I can pick out individual faces, some I recognize even in my dazed state, some I do not. I will never remember, or even know, all the men I serve tonight, and if I survive, for the rest of my life I will wonder whether any man I meet might have been here and buried his cock up to the hilt in me, using me to the limits of our energy.

  The tw
o men who carried me to the altar have first chance at me, and they waste no time. One of them spreads my legs with big calloused hands and shoves his cock into my dripping cunt. I am still loose,hot and wet from the fucking I did at the post, and so there is no discomfort even though his penis feels bigger than any man I've ever taken. There is just the electric tingle of being filled again, of feeling the friction of his thrusts, the slamming of his hips against mine.

  The other man grabs my hair, raising my head to stare into his crotch. The purple-pink head is barely inches from my mouth; I am hypnotized by it. I raise my eyes to his in mute appeal.

  "You need this cock, don't you?" he says, swaying his hips so that it waves in front of me. I try to stretch my neck out, but his hand holds me back in a grip of iron. He leans forward and slaps me across each cheek with it. I burn with humiliation and unbearable longing; he laughs and repeats his statement, letting the head graze my hungry mouth.

  "Tell me how much you need it."

  The words will not come. The man taking me from behind pulls his cock out so only the head is inside me, adding to the teasing. The fire is consuming me from within, and I will have failed in my duty. This means the wildfire will burn unchecked for days to come, destroying the forest, the harvest, the wilderness for hundreds of miles around. I will destroy my people; I will destroy myself. I can't be left empty again.

  I force the words, pleading, begging. "Please take me. I need cock inside me. Please."

  His hips thrust forward, and my mouth is filled again, this time with salty flesh rather than sweetened wood; at the same time, the other man also slams deep within me, and I feel myself being lifted by their force, in the air, as if I am a piece of meat being cooked on a spit. The heat seems to be everywhere, and all I can see is firelight dancing off skin; the altar seems to glow on its own. The devouring flames vent into the sky, blotting out the stars.