BEDTIME STORIES 4: TO MAKE A WITCH BURN

By Dixie Hellcat

Clay’s of two minds about Halloween. Don’t get me wrong; he loves it. The dressing up and all the accompanying silliness bring his inner child out to play in a flash. On the other hand, his star status deprives him of enjoying one of his favorite elements of the spooky night—greeting a steady stream of little trick or treaters, handing out goodies, and passing judgment on costumes. (Judgment? Who am I kidding? To him, every tiny ninja or princess in full regalia is the cutest child ever created. Sure, he’s opinionated, outspoken, even judgmental at times; but with kids? NOT.)

That lack was one reason that I made some calls in late October. I contacted people at RCA, Clay’s management firm, and even Idol, along with trusted folks at my publisher’s and publicist’s offices. All had three things in common: they were trustworthy, discreet, and had children.

Roger, Clay’s publicist, throws a party every October 30 that is the talk of LA. Attendees still chortle when someone mentions last year, when a couple strolled in in body stockings, strategically placed leaves, and an apple, and nothing more. I found myself wishing I could track down an old college friend, who had turned her wheelchair into a rolling shower stall and come to our big annual bash as the shower scene from Psycho, in a robe stained with fake blood and accompanied by her boyfriend in full dress, wig and rubber knife.

Clay howled when I described it. “Pairs costumes are cool. What could we go as?” He screwed his mouth to one side in thought. “Vampire and damsel? Maybe I wouldn’t trip over a cape.”

“Nah, we’d never get to party any. I’d just be wanting Count Aikula to nosh on my neck all night.” He snickered and then proceeded to prove my point, which made it very hard to think. “Quit that or I’ll put garlic in your Raisin Bran. Hm. It needs to be simple, since neither of us has time to shop, even online. UNICEF is going to take all your time next week, and I have to edit the proofs for my new book and have ‘em back to the publisher by November 1. Hey, I know. I’ll do a witch outfit. That’s easy enough. We can modify your old pirate getup and you can be my unsuspecting spellbound colonial husband. Kinda Bewitched circa 1600-something.”

“I like it,” Clay approved. “Recycling’s always good. But promise me one thing, Arianne. Don’t do the green face, wart on nose, frumpy black dress kind of witch.”

“Oh, please. I have pagan friends, remember? I’d never defame them that way. Believe me, my witch will be anything but frumpy.”

I was a woman of my word, too. On the evening of the party, we broke out the outfit Clay had worn to several Renaissance Faires with me. He slid into the well-fitted old-fashioned trousers (with lace up fly), the big-sleeved pirate shirt (with lace up neck) and leather vest and boots. A pewter tankard at his belt and a three-cornered hat with a neat, short red ponytail hanging from the back made him look like any stalwart goodman off the streets of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I admired him for a minute, then dashed into the bedroom to change.

My costume really was simple, yet effective. I stepped into a strapless body suit, black satin overlaid with lace, and over it pulled on a sheer black tuile skirt I’d slashed so it hung in wide ribbons. With black fishnets and high heels, the requisite pointy hat, and a black velvet cape I’d borrowed from a Ren Faire friend, I made, even if I did say so myself, one sexy witch.

Clay evidently agreed, if the noise his jaw made when it hit the floor was any indication, and I was thrilled. Yes, I like to dress up and look hot, and the awareness of men looking at me with longing was one heck of an ego boost for the fat undesirable little girl who still lived somewhere inside me. All that was offset, though, by the only pair of eyes whose longing I returned. I could’ve stayed home happily, and basked in the jade glow of my husband’s lusty gaze.

We did go out, and had a great time, at least until I got sick and had to cut my night short. I was baffled, since I rarely throw up, but after resting the next day I felt much better. The thought of the pumpkin mousse served at the party turned my stomach anew, though. Guys as a general rule shouldn’t attempt Martha Stewart recipes without supervision, however good their intentions. Clay hovered like an anxious mother till I chased him off to meet with his management and work on the upcoming next installment of the Joyful Noise Tour. That gave me time to prepare for the night. Our Halloween wasn’t going to be a total wash!

Toward nightfall Clay got home, and was surprised to find me back in my witchy garb (I left off the cape for comfort, and added a nice pair of black palazzo pants underneath the skirt to tame the costume for the kids). “Well, tonight actually is Halloween,” I replied breezily to his puzzled look as I pulled out bags of candy. “And you never know—“ Just then the door bell announced our first batch of giggly spooks, chaperoned by an old friend of Clay’s, an Idol stagehand, dressed, appropriately, as Simon Cowell. “—what might be haunting you,” I finished, and explained quickly the plan while doling out some killer chocolates I’d found at a little candy store in the Valley.

With a yelp of delight Clay raced off to the bedroom and was back in no time in costume. We spent the evening entertaining a succession of excited little ghouls and spies and Amazons, and he was in his element, teasing the bolder kids and gently coaxing smiles from the shy ones. Several of the grownups I’d lined up to bring their children over had never really seen Clay in this mode, and more than once one whispered, “He’s so good with them…I see what a good teacher he must’ve been.”

I nodded. He had been a great teacher, and would, one day, be a great father, I knew.

It was after ten when the flow of little monsters halted. When the last gaggle piled into an SUV and left, I doused the porch light and the jack o’lantern (carved by a pal of mine with a demonically grinning leprechaun face that reminded me just a little of Clay) and walked out back. The night was mild and the moon bright. I doffed my witch’s hat so the breeze wouldn’t catch it before I went out, and slipped off my pants to enjoy the soft wind on my legs. “That was too much fun,” I declared. Clay followed me without speaking, and I turned, admiring the way the moonlight chiseled his fine features; but at his solemn stare, my grin faltered. “Wasn’t it? I know you don’t like surprises, but—I thought if it was something fun, something you wanted, you’d be okay. Say something—or smile, at least—“

“Oh hush!” His laughing reply cut off my rising concern, before he caught me in his arms. “Tonight was magical. And I wasn’t smiling just now ‘cause I was staring at you, you beautiful witch. Every little stunt you pull is so full of love, I couldn’t be bothered by them, ever. I am so blessed to have you.” I sighed happily. “Trick or treating’s becoming a lost art. When I grew up in Raleigh we still went door to door, but our kids’ll never know that, probably.”

“Probably,” I echoed. As always, the thought of children set a stew of emotions brewing in me: hope, excitement, and worry over what kind of mother I’d be. To send the concerns packing for now, I slipped from his arms and took a few skipping steps across the patio and out into the yard. The breeze played with my hair and skirt. I stretched out my arms to welcome it, and tilted my face back to bathe in the moon’s glow. “Mmm, what a night. If I could spread myself on the wind and fly like a witch I would.”

Clay chuckled. “Oh-ho, and what would a goodman do if he surprised such a fair daughter of the night slinking around his house?”

“Don’t know,” I returned cheerfully, and then paused as, true to form, the novelist lobe of my brain kicked in. “Hm. What would he do? And why would she be slinking around? Looking for something, or someone? Breaking a spell, or casting one, or…hm.”

His green eyes glittered in the pale light. “Sounds like storytime.” Abruptly, he turned away. “Wait here,” he said over his shoulder. I watched his handsome butt disappear into the house and smothered a giggle of anticipation, wondering what game his endlessly clever brain was cooking up. Our mutual storytelling was always a thrill—a very grownup thrill. To blow off my building excitement, I danced across the yard, turned my back to the house and settled on the small bench under our biggest tree, before the gazing globe that shimmered blue-white in the night. Focusing on it, I began to play with plot and character, pondering what tale we would create between the two of us, and how we would play it out.

In a few minutes, light and shadow shifted in the reflection before me, and I heard Clay’s soft footfalls on the grass. “You do look witchy there.” Before I could turn, one long arm went around my shoulders and held me in place.

“She means him no harm,” I said. “I’m sure of that. She’s moving around the house, taking care not to be seen.” The rest I would role-play, building from whatever cues Clay gave me.

“Well, the man of the house is just a little bit paranoid.”

“And you’re not gonna tell me why yet, you rat.”

“Of course not. He’s not stopping for friendly conversation. Strange things have happened, and now here she is, a rumored witch, though not a proven one, lurkin’ under his eaves. He figures there’s got to be a connection, and he wants some answers, and this pretty princess of evil isn’t going anywhere till he gets ‘em.” His other hand covered my mouth. “And she’s not gettin’ a chance to bespell him either.”

I tasted cloth. The goodman meant business! Clay was obviously in a mood to take charge, and I was in a mood to let him. The witch’s shiver would have been of fear at being suddenly caught unaware; mine was simple thrilled realization. Instantly, though, his hand moved away, a familiar black silk scarf draped across his palm. “Unless you don’t want to go there,” he added, sudden uncertainty edging his tone.

“Perfect love and perfect trust.” I smiled at the distorted reflection in the globe of his quizzical look. “A real life Witches’ saying. Applies pretty well to us too, doesn’t it?” His puzzled frown dissolved into an answering smile. “Capture your witch, goodman, and let’s see what dark secrets you can coerce from her.” He drew me back into a tight embrace, and I started to laugh quietly.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. How you’ll get all hot and fierce and dominant, and then stop in your tracks to be sure it’s okay with me.”

“Well, duh.” I leaned back against his lean strong body and looked straight up into his mischievous eyes. “What fun would it be if you weren’t enjoying it too?”

“For some people, I think that would be the fun.”

“Not me, baby.” He squeezed me and grinned down. “This one’s kind of spooky. I think you’ll like it. Consider it my Halloween gift to you. First some tricks, and then some treats.”

“Yum. I’m just happy the goodman snuck up on the witch and captured her. Can’t you see me running across the yard in these heels? Our fun would end before it started, with me with a sprained ankle.”

“Nice how those things work out, isn’t it?” Clay nuzzled my bare shoulder. “I’m fully aware that on you, high heels are more ornamental than functional. Especially when they’re up in the air. Or wearing fishnet hose. Or tied up. Or all of the above.”

“Pervert,” I snorted good-naturedly.

“Tsk. Such language.” He clapped his hand over my mouth again, and with a little tug led me to stand. His other arm tightened around my upper body, holding my arms at my sides, and he guided me several steps before he nudged the backs of my knees. Obediently I bent them, and he eased me down to lie on my stomach on the grass. He straddled me with his knees near my elbows, while he knotted the scarf quickly through my mouth, then moved down my length. One hand slid under my waist, and a moment later something tightened around me. With my arms pinned I couldn’t explore it, but I found out in another moment when he scooted a little farther down me. His hands slid down my arms, raising eager goosebumps, and then pulled first one wrist and then the other behind me, tying them to the rope he had wrapped around my middle.

As soon as he let go I began to twist my hands in search of the knots, and turn my head and work my mouth seeking to slacken the gag. As a kid, one of my favorite neighborhood games was spies. I generally ended up the agent captured and tied up, overhearing the bad guys’ plot and trying to escape and warn my comrades. Given that I was also a magic buff from early years, I got pretty good at escaping. When Clay and I began to play our grownup variations, I felt it behooved me to do the same, and dish out a little payback to boot. I figured it’d do him good, and help him overcome his unease with the unexpected. Well, I figured wrong. It only took one unpleasant event for me to realize just how unnerved he could become, and after beating myself up with guilt for several days I concluded it wasn’t up to me to decide what would do him good. It wasn’t up to me to change him, only to love him.

It was a moot point anyhow. Clay must’ve taken the Boy Scout manual on the road with him and memorized it, because I never got free from one of his knots again. Not that I quit trying. Partly it was just the principle of the thing. Partly it was his confession that watching me struggle turned him on. And partly, it was that it turned me on. It was like a physical whisper reminding me I couldn’t escape his will, and didn’t want to. Our games, we decided, filled deep needs for us both. Clay admits his celebrity often feels like it’s running him instead of the other way around; so he welcomes an opportunity to act out the illusion of total command (and enjoy watching me try to get away). And as a writer, I dot every I, cross every t, and make up every tiny plot twist in my own twisted little brain. Sometimes, I just like being in a totally safe situation where I don’t have to run the show, and where I have no idea what’s going to happen to me next.

Okay, I have some idea. We start with two characters and a setting and improvise from there. Clay is as creative a lover as God ever made, and he never fails to take my breath, figuratively as well as literally, with his inventiveness. So I know that much. I also know I will have his undivided attention every minute; my willing surrender is a magnet to him, and he adores my trust. I know the experience will be exquisitely erotic…and thorough (oh good Lord, will it be thorough!)…and I’ll end up going to the moon, in more sure a flight than a witch on a broom.

Which brought me back to my current delicious predicament, bound and gagged and wriggling around on the ground. I didn’t squirm as much as usual, not because I didn’t want to, but because my breasts were a little tender. I wondered fleetingly if I needed a new bra. That didn’t slow the achy tingling heat of arousal kindling low in my belly though, a sweet counterpoint to the cool dampness of the autumn earth beneath my body. My breath quickened as my exertions proved fruitless, and came in short grunting pants around the gag snugly bound through my lips and teeth. I felt Clay above me, holding my legs down with his body so I couldn’t flee or even turn over, and imagined him sitting on his heels as I writhed vainly beneath him. Just the look in his eyes as he watches me struggle is almost enough to make me come. As I fought the soft cotton rope’s secure knots a little more, I realized something was missing. I halted, and inspected each finger, finding nothing but my wedding ring. How could we have forgotten? I berated myself. About the time I started to worry how I would get his attention, a circle of cool metal slid onto my thumb: the cheap joke buzzer we used as an emergency signal. Perfect love and perfect trust. I relaxed and sighed in contentment. “You didn’t think I’d forget that, did you Buttercup?” Clay whispered in my ear.

I giggled down in my throat at his use of our secret password. “Uh uh.”

My giggle melted into a low groan as his hot moist lips brushed my ear. He caressed my hands, and stopped to tug at my wedding band. “Want me to take this so we don’t risk losing it?”

“Eep!” I hadn’t thought of that either. “Uh huh!”

He slid my ring off and I felt him shift, probably stashing it safely in his pocket. “What did you think, witch?” His voice dropped, into a low dangerous register that gets me hot all by itself. “That you’d bind me with your magic? Who’s bound now?” His fingers traced the ropes around my wrists, and I squirmed and grunted some more. Time to get into character. “I should give you over to the village elders…but I have questions of my own for you. So you’re mine till I get what I want from you.” His hot breath blew in my ear again, and I yelped as another cloth covered my eyes. Clay can get very elaborate sometimes! I’d be interested, to say the least, to see how he planned to interrogate this witch.

He lifted me to my feet and began to direct my steps again. It felt like we walked forever, though he was probably going in circles to disorient me. His guidance was good, though; despite the uneven ground, I never stumbled. Finally he stopped, and stepped behind me to tug at my hands. “There, now you won’t go anywhere till I return.” He moved away and I tried to follow, only to find he’d tied me to something! A tree, a fence post, a stair rail…what the heck was it? I didn’t have time to try to feel; he was back in a flash, and led me a few more steps. “Down we go, witch. Closer to your infernal master, if you like.” I shook my head without thinking. Hm, maybe she isn’t a witch…or isn’t a devil-follower, anyhow.

My captor got in front of me and guided me down several steep concrete steps. Now I thought I knew where it was: the old unfinished part of our basement, with its outside door. It was chilly, though, and I was approaching someplace quite warm; I felt heat on my face (and my chest, where the top of my bodysuit had slid alarmingly low with my struggles). The sound quality changed around me, so I knew I was indoors again. A door shut behind me. “A pity I have no suitable dungeon, with chains and the like, nor a rack to wring the truth from you.” With that I suddenly left my feet, swept up in his arms and deposited on my back on a marginally soft surface. “This old bedstead will have to serve, I fear.” Almost before I could react, one leg was outstretched and the ankle bound, then the other spread and done likewise. Firm strokes from the tip of my pointy high heeled shoe along my instep and up to the rope around my ankle made me quake with aroused anticipation. “Mmmm,” Clay murmured in appreciation.

You are so breaking character, dude, I thought, and snorted “Pervert” again. Of course, this time it came out mmph mmph.

“Save your protests, witch.” He came closer and pushed me to sit long enough to undo one wrist, then stretched it up and out, pulling me back down as he tied it. Even the way he had originally bound me now made sense; while he addressed one hand, the other was still held behind me, unable to defend or attack. As I said, he is thorough! So in seconds I lay spread-eagled and helpless, trussed to something that gave not at all when I pulled on it. The cellar was full of neat old stuff left from previous owners of our wonderful old house…including, I remembered now, an old brass bed. Nope, this witch wasn’t going anywhere. Why was it so warm though—hot, even? Sweat was beginning to form on my bare skin.

“Welcome to my dungeon, witch.” He untied the rope around my waist and pulled the blindfold away. The space around me was dark, lit only by a ruddy glow. I managed to raise and turn my head enough to see flames leaping at one side, from what looked for all the world like an old-fashioned brazier on a pedestal. “I thought this might please you—more like the environs of your Satanic lord, don’t you think? It may put you more at ease. A good thing, I think, considering that if you don’t speak me true, you may be here a while. Perhaps I should just leave you here, till hunger and thirst force reply from you.” I squirmed frantically, as he came into my view. The firelight burnished his flawless bone structure and set his tousled red hair alight; shadows hid his eyes, and he had an almost demonic look himself. “So, witch, you’d be wise to tell me what I wish to know.”

He loosened the gag. “Don’t call me witch!” I gasped. “I mean you no harm. I have done nothing to you, or no evil to anyone!”

“Liar!” he hissed. “My wife has gone missing for a week now. The whole village knows you deal in potions and spells, and I saw her speaking with you on the village green. She denied it when I asked. Now she is gone, and I find you creeping around my house. What have you done with her?”

What a great start! I would’ve applauded, if I could’ve. “Nothing!” I retorted, my mind clicking as I came up with pieces to fit with his. “We spoke as women do, of everyday things, nothing more.”

“Uncooperative wench!” he snapped. “If you won’t speak the truth, then speak not at all!” Back went the gag, over my vigorous but useless protests. “The elders’ means of questioning are more effective, perhaps, and maybe I should have given you over to them…but they are…brutal …and you are so fair…” His voice softened, as the backs of his fingers skimmed my cheek where the black silk silencing me cut across it. “So fair—to be so evil.” His tone snapped back. “Think on your choice, witch. Contemplate the flames yonder, and remember, when I give you into their hands, they will bind you too—to a stake—and the fire will be closer than this, much closer.” I couldn’t help but shiver for real, as I thought of the sad and beautiful memorial in Salem, honoring those who died because of others’ superstition and error.

I had an idea, now, of what this witch was doing, and I’d get a chance to contribute it…whenever Clay got ready. I wriggled around, in search of nonexistent slack in my bonds, and one breast finally got fed up and popped out of my bustier top. He looked down and laughed sharply. “Women. You can’t work magic, thus restrained, but you can still try to work your wiles, can’t you? Two can play that game, though, for I can use your carnal needs to my advantage.” He grabbed and pinched—and I nearly went through the ceiling! I yelled, and slapped the buzzer on my hand before I even realized I’d done it. Clay froze, and then fumbled to pull the scarf from my mouth. “Oh crap—what’s wrong, baby?”

“Not so hard!” I yelped.

“I didn’t!” He looked near tears. “You like it when I goof around with your boobs.”

“They’re kinda sensitive right now, I don’t know why. Maybe I just need a new bra, or it’s that time of the month. Anyway, take it easy on the gals tonight, would ya?”

He calmed down, and tenderly kissed the offended nipple. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. You couldn’t have known.”

“Do you wanna stop?”

“Are you kidding? I’m curious now! Besides, I have some good ideas.”

“I love a smart woman,” he grinned, and slipped the damp silk back into my mouth, securing it when I raised my head. With the replacement of the ‘equipment’, so to speak, he dropped back into character. “You’re perspiring. Is the fire of hell not to your liking? You should have thought of that before you gave yourself into the devil’s service.” He ran his fingers over my arms and chest, glistening with the sweat I’d built up resisting. He paused to whip off his vest, with a sharp move that reminded me of the first Jukebox Tour, and then, Lord help me, to pull off his shirt! “I hear it said, though, he has ways to cool his worshippers’ ardor. ‘Tis said his touch is cold…” He walked out of my eyesight, though I strove to lift my head and watch, and returned a moment later, hiding something small in his hand.

The unexpected kiss of chill on my sweaty skin made me jerk against the ropes and gasp. He ran the ice all up and down my arms, and then around my breasts; and then, with a fiendish grin, he popped it into his mouth, and dipped his head to my chest. His hot lips fastened on my nipple and teased it, alternating with strokes of the cold ice cube, until it was as hard as the ice itself. The contrast sent shudders of arousal through me; my vulnerable position, body stretched taut by the ropes that held me captive, intensified every sensation, and every futile attempt I made to free myself only tensed my muscles more and made the feelings stronger yet. At my gagged whimpers, he lifted his head, his face a picture of satisfaction. “Can a mortal not torment you as well as a demon can?” he murmured. He tortured my other breast in the same manner, dropping the tiny sliver of ice left afterward on my chest; it melted in my cleavage and trickled chilly rivulets down my belly inside my suit. He returned to his stash for a refill, and then, as I feared, he knelt between my open legs. I moaned into the gag, my fate clear and inescapable.

He left the fishnets where they were and kissed and licked my hot skin through them. I twitched and mewed as my own body heat warmed his mouth, while at the same time he stroked the ice along my exposed thighs and groin. When he decided he had had enough, he unsnapped the crotch of my suit (yeah, it’s as much an anachronism as the pockets in Clay’s ‘medieval’ trousers, so?)…and stopped. I lay quivering, waiting, watching him, knowing he knew just how far to push me, and loving the way he knew.

He went lightly on the tender skin between my legs, nipping and nibbling at my lower lips and clit, already swollen and throbbing with excitation. If the combination of hot and cold had roused my nipples, it drove the nether regions wild. I grunted and thrashed and tried to thrust myself upward, as release did its tantalizing dance just beyond my reach; but I couldn’t move. Relief was utterly out of my control. I could do absolutely nothing to help myself, and I knew it. He knew it too. I could tell from the low chuckle he let out when I had exhausted myself, and the vibration of his laugh, with his lips pressed against me, almost did the deed itself. Then, as if to taunt me further, his tongue, now cold again, thrust once into my wet depths, and I flung my head back and forth and cried out in muffled frustration as he raised himself without finishing me.

“See, witch? I have my own means of torture. Let’s see how effective they prove.” His hands were damp, from ice, and me, and his own sweat that beaded in the fiery fur on his arms. I lay shaking, though not relieved, as he undid the gag again. “Now, what do you say? Will you confess, or must I punish—“

“I didn’t know!” I cried hoarsely. “I didn’t know what she wanted—I thought it was for you, and her, together…Forgive me, and don’t give me to be burned, please. I didn’t know!!”

He halted. “So, devil’s paramour, you admit yourself?”

“I have no truck with any devil! I am gifted, yes. I can make things, and do things, others cannot. It is God’s gift to me, and I use it to help, never to harm!” I shook my head vehemently, and even managed to bring a tear to my eye.

It didn’t escape Clay’s notice, either. He touched the drop that slid down my cheek. “Witches cannot weep, it is said.”

“Women can,” I retorted, “whether they are called witch or not.”

He was still for a breath, and then another, his arms supporting him above me, and his eyes boring into mine as though to penetrate to my depths. “What happened?” I did not reply immediately, assembling the last bits of my story; but he played it as though my silence was reluctance, which worked fine actually. “I will have the truth from you, witch-woman!” he ground out. Ah, he said more than just witch now: a small but telling point I could play from. That was assuming I could keep playing, of course. It was highly distracting to have his crotch pressed hard against mine, and loudly proclaiming its opinion of that proximity, and the rasp in his voice made it very, very difficult to focus on anything except how desperately I wanted him to truly penetrate to my depths.

“All right!” I cried. I took a deep breath—as deep as I could, considering he was half lying on me. “Some weeks ago, you may remember, a man came to the village, a merchant traveler. During his sojourn here, your wife came to me one day with what I thought was a womanly favor. She asked what herbs or spells were efficacious in kindling a man’s ardor. Her manner was shy, as though unwilling to expose her privacy. So it was natural that I assumed she…wished to restore joy to her marriage.” The witch had more in mind than just that, but I wasn’t going any farther just yet. “I gave her herbs, and simple words to say, and gave it no more thought…until she vanished, on the day the traveler departed.”

“No,” Clay breathed, his whole face intent with listening. I wondered what his plan was and how my tale would fit with his.

“I feared the worst,” I pushed on, “so I contrived to gain admittance to the cottage in which the traveler had lodged, and found—“ I had a sudden flash of inspiration. “I found a kerchief I recognized. It belonged to your wife.”

He gasped dramatically. “Liar!” he growled. “Shut up!”

I jerked my head as far away as I could when he reached for the scarf as if to stuff it in my mouth again, and he stopped, which I suspected was what he intended to do to begin with. “No, no!” I pleaded with convincing emotion. “Hear my confession, will you! I determined what must have transpired. In the cottage, I also found the herbs I had given to her. I…I believe she became enamored of him, and sought to win his favor. She spoke to me of her weariness with the country life, and how she dreamt of great cities. It may be she saw in him a means of escape.”

He shook his head in denial. “And why then were you creeping around my home this night?” he demanded.

“Look under the sill of your bedroom window. There you will find her kerchief. I buried it there, and would have taken a bit of the dirt with me. There is a rite I can perform, to return a wayward lover. It might not work, since she left of her own wish, but I would try.”

“Use your sorcery to restore my wife?” he snorted. ‘Why?”

“Because I blame myself!” His gaze was unrelenting. I laid my head back on the thin mattress pad, a little tired from the heat and excitement. “May I have some water, please?”

He climbed off the bed and returned with a chunk of ice he held to my lips. I sucked gratefully on it, watching him watch my mouth. I rolled my tongue around the cold wetness, and caught his finger in the process. His hand twitched, and it wasn’t from the chill either. I suppressed a smile. Even bound hand and foot, I could still do my own teasing! He looked like he wanted to eat me alive. “You blame yourself?” he said, his voice low and tight. “You have no need to, if you speak truly. You could not have known. Or can witches read others’ deep thoughts?”

“No, I cannot read thoughts…though I wonder what yours are, just now, toward me your captive, goodman.” Zing! His eyes darkened into forest-green pools of want. To his credit, he regrouped quickly, and got me back by running the ice down my throat. “Ahh…” I gasped and arched my neck, unable to move much else.

“I wonder how I might know if you are lying, witch. Must I torment it out of you?”

I thought on it, while simultaneously trying not to dislocate a joint; as he teased my hot body with the ice I jerked involuntarily against the ropes. “Ah—oh—there is a spell, to compel the truth…”

“And that would do me no good at all.”

“Yes, it would! This is Halloween night. Any mortal taught a spell can use it tonight.” Okay, that wasn’t actual folklore. It worked in our story.

His eyes narrowed, and he stroked my wet lips again with the ice. I obliged with a nice show, and he almost shivered. I wished I could raise my head enough to see just how hard he was. “Tell me how.”

I had the perfect answer. “First you must prick me and take a bit of my blood into your mouth. It is not true that witches do not bleed, so choose your spot. I will endure, if it will convince you of me. Then…” I looked away as though embarrassed, though really I was concealing a grin. “Then you must…take my womanly juice with it into your mouth, the deepest juices I can release.”

Now he was hard pressed not to grin. “And I must bring that about, yes?”

“Yes. Lastly, you must kiss me with your tongue, and say certain words I will teach you. Then, you may ask five questions, and I must answer them with the whole truth.” Yeah, I’m evil. I had just figured out a way to get off, AND to get the witch’s darkest secret exposed, if Clay asked the right question. Even if he didn’t, I could work it.

After a moment, as though deciding whether to risk it, he reached for his belt. “This small blade will serve.” He pressed on one of my fingers and I pretended to jump as if pricked. He lowered his head to my bound hand and sucked the finger into his mouth. Good God, it felt like the nerve endings shot straight into my crotch! I stroked his cheek with my thumb and groaned deep in my throat at the sweet agony. I probably should mumble some incantation, just so he’ll gag me…I could use something to bite down on.

In a minute he moved though, and the Promised Land was in sight. Kneeling between my outspread legs, he paused, and his eyes thrust into me the way I ached for his body to do. “So, how do I compare with a demon’s pleasuring, witch-woman?”

“I know no demon’s touch,” I moaned. “Please, please, torment me no more…” This was one intense game. I was afraid I might climax just from him breathing on me. Every inch of my body was gasping with desire. With slow firm motions he kneaded my thighs, and without conscious thought I struggled anew against the bonds around my ankles, this time straining to open my legs even wider for him.

“Sweet wanton…” he murmured, and bent to his task. He did just breathe on me at first, and tickled with the lightest strokes of his tongue and lips and teeth; then he swept his tongue in long strokes along the edges of my lower lips and flicked at my clit. Back and forth he went, relishing his power and my willing forfeit of it, spinning me out and finally, finally setting me free to explode in release.

As I trembled with aftershocks, he moved up me again, and thrust his tongue into my mouth. I grabbed it greedily with my own, tasting myself and wishing I was tasting him. “The waters of your life flow in me now,” he intoned. “Your thoughts are mine. So speak truth, that I may know.” No, it wasn’t great poetry, but for an incantation made up on the fly it wasn’t bad.

“Yes,” I sighed.

“Did my wife come to you for magic?”

“Yes.”

“Did she tell you why she wished such things?”

“I have told you already, and truly. She said she wished to bind another’s heart. I assumed she feared she had lost your affections, and wanted to regain them. It is ill done to try and force another’s love through spells, so the herbs and words I gave her would soften a man’s disposition, soothe him and make him look kindly upon her, nothing more.”

“Mmm.” He licked his lips, as if to taste me anew, and his fair neck flushed. God, he’s gorgeous. “Why did you come to my house tonight?”

“That too I have told you true. I came to begin a spell to return your wife’s affection to you.”

“Because you felt guilty, you say, for giving her the means to trap another man.” I nodded. “I may ask only one more question while you lie bound by my spell—hah, that has a nice ring to it, my spell.”

“No, you have two more,” I pointed out. “That last one wasn’t a question.” Clay rolled his eyes and I tried not to snicker. I can’t help it if I get technical sometimes.

“Fine, then. Have you told me the truth in all things?”

Aha, my opening! I grimaced and turned my head, as if in discomfort. “No,” I said finally.

“Ah, and now at last I hear truth. What have you lied to me about?”

“Do not force me to humiliate myself, goodman,” I begged, but his frown darkened.

“Speak, witch-woman. If your spell is valid, you must. Speak, or else you won’t speak much for a long while. I’ll muzzle you and leave you here till you decide to cooperate.”

He tugged threateningly at the scarf lying half-undone about my neck. “No!” I cried. “I—I—I didn’t just start the spell because I felt guilty. I did it because…because I wanted you to be happy. Because I have longed for you, for a long time, and I knew I could never have you. So I wanted at least to be able to bring you happiness in some way, especially if I was the cause of your loss.”

Ha! There ya go, Clay. Now how’s the goodman coming back to that? He stopped cold for a second. “But…if you desired me, it would then have been a simple matter to let your rival go her way.”

“She’s your wife. ‘Tis said that true love wants for the beloved what the beloved wants for himself. My heart yearns for you, but I want you to have what you want. You want your wife, surely.”

I left him an opening this time, and bless him, he jumped right on it. “Do I?” he said huskily, and his mouth found mine again, this time soft and thirsty. “I have seen you, witch-woman. I have watched you, and desired you. You are so fair, and so unfairly dealt with. I know you never to have done harm to a soul, and yet you are snubbed and scorned. Look at me!” he cried, and rose and flung his hand at my bound body. “How shamefully I dealt with you, out of fear.”

“And you blame yourself now? Didn’t you just say to me that you could not have known, so you have no cause for guilt? The same goes for you.”

“I couldn’t have hurt you.” His breaths were short now, and his face twitched with emotion. ‘There can be no devil in you. I know that. I would do you no harm, I swear.”

“You are right. I am no devil-follower. But how can I know you speak the truth to me about your intentions?”

I lay back and watched him, to see if he got it. He did. A knowing sparkle lit his eye, glinting from the flames. “There is a spell, to prove such.”

“Yes, there is, but I am as you see in no position to cast it.” I tugged at the ropes around my wrists, no looser than when I was first bound there; but in a moment they were undone. I stretched and winced a little; I was going to be sore tomorrow. Of course, that’d be a great excuse to demand payback in the form of a nice massage and bath. I stretched again, and then looked up at my captor turned rescuer.

“Prove me, witch-woman,” he said. “Not here, this is a cruelly hard place to be.” He took my hand and helped me off the bed, stirred the ‘brazier’ (an old grill, I now saw!) and spread the fuel to die down to embers. Then he sat beside it, on a pile of old blankets, and drew me down with him.

I brandished an imaginary knife, but then halted. “I don’t want to cause you hurt. To draw your blood…oh, no.”

“From a pinprick?” he chuckled. “I’m not so feeble as that.” He held out his hand, and I pretended to poke it and lowered my head. As I slowly took a finger into my mouth, his head tipped back and his eyes half closed, the lashes fluttering in that way I love. His breaths came short and hard as I wrapped my tongue around him and tasted the sweet salt on his skin. I ran one hand up his arm, crinkling the soft fur and making him shiver. From his shoulder, I caressed down through the sweat-dewed fur of his chest and found the laces on his trousers. I sat up long enough to pull off my rumpled bodysuit as he watched, his eyes glittering feverishly from beneath heavy lids.

He dropped heavily back onto his elbows when I slid down and undid the laces. Inside he was as attentive as I had hoped, and I took my own revenge. Slowly, slowly, I licked and sucked and nibbled and kissed, till his every breath was an incoherent plea for fulfillment. I paused, and he whimpered, and I slid my hands under him and gripped that magnificent butt I had been itching to get hold of all night. I matched the rhythm of my squeezes to the renewed pace of my mouth, until he gasped and convulsed and let go. I cleaned him up cat-fashion, then rose to take his lips prisoner as he lay limp, his body glistening.

“You didn’t say the magic words,” he mumbled.

“I can’t think of anything to ask,” I almost giggled. “I believe you.”

“Do it anyway. I want you to be sure of me.”

It sounded as if Clay had something in mind for his character to say, so I set him up with the words of the truth spell. “Do you truly mean me no harm?”

“None.”

“And do you truly care for me? Truly?”

“I do. I love you, witch-woman. You need not bespell me, or even ask the question. I will say it.…The law and the parson say all witches are evil, but I cannot agree, for I have seen you.”

“Oh, there are folk who sit primly in the meeting house on Sunday, who are far better servants of the darkness than many who wield small magic as I do.”

“I can believe that,” he said wryly. “You need never again fear a stake, or burning, from me.”

“Ah, but I see you have a mighty stake of your own.” I reached down. He was already rising to the occasion again. “And I would let you bind me to it, goodman, for I burn for you already.”

With a sudden wicked grin, he rolled me onto my back and his mouth roved all over me, licking my sweat as I had his. “Then since I have already set you ablaze, my lady witch, let me be the one to control the flames.” He wriggled out of his pants and claimed my mouth, while his long fingers stroked my wetness till I was moaning into his mouth; his tender, powerful touch commanded my body’s response in a way no force ever could. This time he did not prolong foreplay, instead setting himself and sliding into my eager depths with a groan of welcome. Mine matched it, and I wrapped my legs around his slim hips and pulled him deeper into me, needing him to fill my body as completely as he did my soul and my heart: my first and only love. Every wiggle and thrust and shift of angle brought climax closer, until he gasped and let out a guttural cry, his head flung back in the most beautiful position I know, and the heat of his release bathed my insides and pushed me over the edge too.

We came back to earth tangled in the old blankets and each other. “You are such a sap,” Clay mumbled after a long quiet time.

“Don’t start with me. Happy endings have made me a lot of money.” He snickered and buried his nose in my damp neck, and we lay in languid afterglow until the fire guttered out and the cool of outdoors began to creep in. We stirred ourselves to move, but only got as far as the finished part of the basement, where we landed on the big sofa in the music room, wrapped ourselves in each other and fell asleep.

I woke, feeling a little queasy again, and tried to disentangle myself and slip to the downstairs bathroom without disturbing Clay. My effort was unsuccessful, though, and he stood with concern in his eyes as I retched a few times into the toilet. “I’m callin’ the doctor. You may have got a stomach bug.”

“Maybe,” I conceded. I padded upstairs, surprised to see it was after six in the morning! I grabbed our robes and took him his, then made myself some hot tea and munched a few saltines. After that I felt much better, but Clay would not relent, and nagged me till I called my doctor, who could squeeze me in later in the day. I went in, got sucked dry as a vampire, and went home to work on my manuscript proofs…and recuperate from our strenuous entertainment of the previous night. I was still gunning for that massage and bath—till Clay walked in that night walking almost as stiffly! So we did each other the honor and curled up in bed.

The next day I didn’t get around to calling the doctor’s office until after I’d mailed off the manuscript, answered a buttload of emails and picked up Clay’s dry cleaning. I decided to squeeze the call in before I went shopping for a new bra. I called, and I went shopping…but not for exactly the same stuff that was originally on my list. When Clay came home he found me with calendars and paperwork from his management spread over the dining room table, and a shopping bag parked on the floor at my feet. “Have you started looking at dates for Tour next summer?” I asked. “Like late June, say?”

“Well, no. Aren’t you gettin’ a little ahead of the game, Ari? Let’s get Joyful Noise in first!”

“Yeah, I guess. You know me, a big planner. I hit some after-Halloween sales. It’s amazing, the stuff you can pick up that’ll be useful for next year. Like this.” I held up a sewing pattern for a pumpkin-shaped baby bunting. “My sewing’s rusty, but it’s about time I brush up. My knitting too, maybe.”

He stared, and gaped, and actually took off his glasses and cleaned them and put them back on, to be sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Then he let out a whoop and grabbed me up, and then screeched in alarm and put me down. “Oh gosh, I shouldn’t do that. You could break. Or the—the baby—omigosh, did I just say that? The baby? OUR baby, Ari? Oh Lord, what about last night, is it gonna be traumatized for life?”

“Not even close,” I giggled. “You know, among Indian tribes, the men often said ‘once you plant a field, you must keep it watered if you hope to have a good crop’. So don’t even think you’re not gonna be touching me for the next nine months, Mister Aiken.”

His face was absolutely alight, and my nervousness melted away in the warmth of joy. “Well, Mrs. Aiken, you got your happy ending.”

“Oh, this isn’t the end, my darling. It’s a whole new beginning.”

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- You can contact the author at theleewit@mindspring.com.

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