Spells & Submission

Safi's emerald eyes glinted under the brash lighting of the podium; her false lashes cast spidery shadows onto her chiselled, porcelain cheekbones. She gripped the pole firmly and slid her toned, stockinged thigh up the slick, steel length; her body spiralled around in time to the resounding music as she flicked her fiery red mane over her shoulder. She glided effortlessly, mesmerising all who had the misfortune of falling within her line of sight. Her body — hips swaying hypnotically — enchanted and enthralled, dragging her spectators deeper and deeper into a toxic lull.

The club was unusually quiet for a Friday night which meant that pickings were slim. Her first customer had been very strong-willed — more so than expected, based on his cheap polyester suit and receding hairline. As the only half-witch of the Southeil bloodline, Saphira had grown up knowing that she lacked the potency of the other females within her family. Whilst her mother and sisters could have crushed and devoured the soul of any man tonight, Safi needed a toy that would submit to her willingly or near-willingly even. She needed an easy reaping that would not exhaust her so she could practise the skill of bending and twisting a man to her will. Her strength would only increase with each successful hunt and she craved omnipotence. She revelled in the thought that someday, she would be able to incinerate the will of even the strongest mortal, with just the flash of her sickeningly sweet smile or the touch of her delicate finger against the callousness of his unshaven cheek; but it had been three days since her last reaping and she was weakening.

Her eyes darkened as a depraved sense of excitement crawled through her veins, warming her to the very core of her blackened heart. Pressing her arse — clad in a strappy black and red thong — against the cool steel, she lifted her arms above her head and rocked her hips hypnotically as she methodically scanned the tables and booths around her. Narrowing her eyes into a feline glower, she ran her hands over her stomach and up her body, to her firm breasts which were bound beautifully in a long-line balconette bra that matched her thong. Squeezing handfuls of flesh, she felt a seismic longing brewing between her thighs, forcing her to hone in on her acute senses. To her frustration, she was nearing the end of her shift and time was, therefore, running out — she needed to find a mortal, sooner rather than later. Every day without a hunt would only diminish her ability to utilise her powers to their maximum capacity which would make the next reaping even harder than the last.

Her hunger was becoming insatiable.

Her body danced and worked the platform, effortlessly and independently of her mind, which worked to drown out the noise and glare around her. She drew in a mouthful of stale air, tinged with the taste of cheap alcohol and acrid cigarettes, watching the scene before her eventually slow to a tenth of its natural pace. A low, electric hum captured the entire room, suspending all action in a thick, translucent mist. Her temples ached, as though bruised, as she tapped into her wavering darkness, trying hard to maintain control and forge a connection to the malice within. As though she was underwater, she could hear the throbbing of blood, pumping and rushing through every vein and artery in the bodies around her; she could feel the surge of lewd thoughts and desires, emanating from their feeble minds. Safi sucked in their filthy needs, letting the wisps of broken words and sordid groans swirl and settle as she quickly sifted through them, looking for signs of weakness and desperation.

She burned through fragility and insecurity; it fuelled her, and the gratification she scoured from such mortals was like no other. Wading through the white noise, she followed the guidance of her aching loins, fighting the throb that swelled across her forehead, and instead, trying to concentrate on the direction in which her body was trying to guide her. She pushed past the discomfort, immersing herself in the darkness of her innate abilities.

Then, she saw him.

Sat in the farthest, dingiest booth, he was in the outermost ring of her casting and she had to fully concentrate to penetrate even the peripherals of his mind. Fully absorbed in his brandy, she couldn't even take advantage of the usual lecherous glare and pierce through his pupils. Turning every ounce of attention towards her prey, she stroked her talons over her own skin, seeing the reaction on his body. An unwitting moan seemed to exit his lips as she trailed a single, almond-shaped nail over her chest and under his once-white shirt. She moved her hand over her own throat and tugged his slackened tie, guiding his concentration away from his glass until he found her six-inch stiletto heels in his eye-line. She had him.