“My car is getting serviced? Can you pick me up? 🙏 😍” Rosaline asks in a text on the Saturday of our first date.
My heart skips several beats as I stare at the big juicy love hearts in the emoji. Then I get nervous, like this can’t be true, like it’s some sort of mistake and I’ll get to the date and she’ll laugh and I’ll have to leave with my stupid tail between my dumb legs. I’ve come to be so unsure of people over the years that I question everyone about everything.
“I can do that 😊,” I reply.
I don’t have to be at Rosaline’s place until eight pm with dinner reservations at Kitsch Bar in Leederville at half 8. I’m so nervous by five that I decide to get ready to distract myself. I have a steaming hot shower and get turned on halfway through it. I want to masturbate to relieve my tension, but I have a weird superstition (one that I’ve had since I was 14 years old) that I get bad luck after pleasuring myself. It lasts 24 hours and has cost me job offers and relationships, brought on parental and work scornings and constantly results in my UberEats orders getting misdelivered.
The problem is holding back the sexual tension makes me even more nervous and by the time I get dried off and back to my room, I’m shaking. I stare at myself in the mirror as I sip my white wine and ice. Jesus, get a grip, girl! I put the wine down, sit on my bed and without thinking, start masturbating. But I catch myself and scorn my goldfish memory. I’m not doing anything to jinx tonight.
I try on half a dozen different outfits and get my roommates opinions on the two long flowing dresses in question. My brain’s too hot and fuzzy to take in what they’re saying, and I end up going with a different dress altogether. I change my knickers twice in search of a pair that highlight who I am. You’re ridiculous, I tell myself as I pull up the red satin panties.
I buzz around my room for the next hour, look at the Kitsch menu, decide what I’m going to order (a trick I learnt to ease the stress on a first date), flick on the tv, kill it a second later, go back to my laptop, look at her description, get even more turned on, play some music, dance a little then lay on the bed and cycle through my social media. I stupidly drink two more glasses of wine, bringing the grand total to a bottle. Thankfully, I’m no lightweight, though I do feel tipsy and certainly not confident that I’d pass a police breath test.
“Fuck,” I curse myself as I walk out.
I drop my keys as I get in the car, which is when I smell the booze on my breath reflecting off the steering wheel. Should I call the date off? Rosaline looks classy. She doesn’t want some drunk twit rocking up to her place and driving her to dinner.
Just before I turn the key, my phone vibrates in the centre console with a text from Jack.
“Just wanted to say hey & I was thinking about you. I know that date was a bit weird the other night. I think we were both off with the fairies. But I LOVED the bit after. CAN’T WAIT to see you again and explore each other some more.”
I swallow hard while my hot brain vibrates so intensely that I feel like spewing. I open my door and lean out of the car while the feeling settles. Jesus. I’m a fuck up. I pull myself back in and start the car. I close the message from Jack and open one to Rosaline.
“Just leaving mine. Be there in ten. I have a confession … I’ve had some wine to ease the nerves.”
I hit send, pull out of my drive and get to Rosaline’s place way sooner than I think. I feel embarrassed, so I stay in my car and madly chew mint gum to hide the booze on my breath. Another text comes through. It’s Rosaline.
“Are you outside?”
“Oh yeah, sorry.”
“Should I come out?”
“No, I’m coming now.”
I shove my phone away and launch out of the car, half excited, half loathing my drinking habits. I knock on the door, which flings straight open to reveal the angel. The world stops for a moment as she blinks slowly and smiles. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear then looks down sheepishly. I’m staring. Stop it. Say something.
“Hey.”
“Hey. Do you want to come in while I get my things?” she says in a thick Italian accent.
“Oh, I didn’t realise you were Italian.”
“How would you?” she asks with a naughty grin that makes my knees go weak.
“I don’t know,” I say, frozen to the spot.
“Are you going to come in or—”
I shake myself out of the stupor and walk past her as she grabs at me for a hug. I don’t expect it and bash my hand against the wall as I try to throw an arm around her.
“Jesus, I’m an idiot,” I say.
“No! Why? It’s ok. You’re nervous, you said.”
“Aren’t you nervous too?”
“No, I don’t get nervous for anything anymore. Not since I was a bambino in Italy and I steal my father’s cigarettes. He would investigate when he saw they were missing. I would get a nervous then. A lot. But not now.”
I giggle at her story as I follow her to the kitchen. The place is a quaint cottage in the leafy back streets of Como. The interior isn’t at all what I expected. The styling is masculine and ugly, and the room has a really obnoxious smell. Rosaline whips around and sees the corresponding look on my face.
“Sorry, my roommate is a pig. I’m moving when I can afford it.”
“What’s that smell?” I ask, trying my hardest not to breathe.
“B.O. Thank God he’s out tonight. It’s sometimes worse. Drink?” she asks as she grabs the fridge door.
I grin like an idiot and nod. She passes me a black vodka-soda mix can and cracks one for herself before grabbing my hand and yanking me out of the kitchen. We walk down a messy corridor and stop by a shut bedroom door. She pops it open and we hustle inside, where we take deep breaths of clean air. Her perfume hits my nose and cuts through the lingering stank.
“Sorry.”
I grab her hand and squeeze it. “It’s OK. It smells much better in here.”
Silence falls over us. The moment seems inducive of a kiss, but even my forward nature isn’t that game, so instead, I slug from the can and look around the room to distract me from her killer gaze.
Her room is dark and feels like a witch’s lair. Three candles are alight on a small side table. They’re surrounded by flowers, several ornamental statues, a dagger and an old black book with two roman numerals on the cover.
“What is this?” I ask.
She says something in Italian before stopping herself then saying, “Sorry, it’s my altar.”
“Altar for what? Are you some sort of witch?”
“Si,” she says without falter.
Suddenly her hand is on the side of my waist. I shiver, then again when her breath tickles the side of my neck. I beg for her to kiss me, but instead, her hand keeps moving and lands on the dagger. One of her fingers pins down the sheath while her other fingers slide it out.
My heart is racing so hard I can hear it pulsing in my brain. Whomping and stomping while my fate lies with this complete stranger. Maybe her unassuming look is a decoy, purposefully crafted to throw her unsuspecting dates off just before she murders them. Maybe that smell is her last victim rotting away in a cupboard.
Fuck!
Should I run? Even if I tried, she has her arms around me and I wouldn’t get far. I could scream? But would anybody hear it? And even if they did, would anybody come? Unlikely. No, just be a polite innocent victim that gives your murderer no grief. I resign myself to the fact, and surprisingly, it helps me settle.
“Am I the lamb to the slaughter?”
Rosaline chuckles but doesn’t stop edging the knife towards me.
“Here,” she says, flipping it over in her hand and holding it for me to take.
I watch my fingers float through the air like they’re on puppet strings. I’m in a strange trance, and her steady breath in my ear is its rhythm. My fingers graze the side of her hand and get zapped with static. They land in the middle of the ice-cold blade, slide up to the dark wooden handle and take it from her. It’s heavy for its size and feels important, like it could cast a spell or kill a demon.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I hiss like I’m her loyal snake servant.
“It arrived today. I’m in love.”
“Lucky knife,” I purr.
I roll it under the dim light in the room and see our reflections. I’m relieved to see her smiling normally like she’s genuinely happy, not happy in a sick and twisted, ‘I’m just about to make a human sacrifice out of you’ kind of a way.
I take the sheath and slide the blade away, then finger the book on the table and whisper, “Can I open it?”
“Of course,” Rosaline says, stepping closer and pushing her breasts into my back.
Her perfume is so rich that it makes my heart race. She’s coming for me and I like it. I’m being hunted by the most beautiful predator in the kingdom.
I open the book and turn to the title page.
The Discouerie of Witchcraft.
“A typo on page one. Tut tut,” I joke.
Again she chuckles, but this time it ends with two of her fingers sweeping my hair behind my ear. Her breath closes in and I wait for the fangs to pierce my neck. But instead, her lips do and I go weak at the knees. She forces them into my soft skin, pushing my head to the side. They slide up until they’re on my ear, where they stop dead.
“Come on, we don’t want to be late for dinner,” Rosaline says.
I spin around.
“Fuck dinner.”
She looks surprised but then reacts by latching onto my lips and forcing me against her altar. It bangs against the wall and I worry the lit candle is going to set fire to the place. But thankfully, the only thing that lights up is my soul.
Rosaline takes charge and forces her tongue through my lips. I open up and fall under its spell. It’s softer than silk and playful as fuck, winding around mine, back and forth, up and down before retreating out of my mouth then going again. I moan at the pleasure and try to show her that I can hold my own, but really, it’s no good. I’m in the arms of a trained assassin and that’s that. Game over, Geneva.
Her hand finds my ass and squeezes before turning and trailing down my legs. I beg for her to go under my dress, and I think she is when she grabs the hem and lifts it to my thighs. But then she drops it and runs her fingers down again. I melt at her tease until she stops, spins and walks to the stereo on her small drawing table. She turns it on and glides over the buttons and knobs to get it humming the blues.
“A woman after my own heart.”
“Howling’ Wolf,” she says, letting her accent go thick and lazy.
“I know,” I say, leaning back against the wall while I wait for my new master to take me.
“You have good taste.”
“Only in music and women.”
“And fashion,” she purrs as her hand lands back on my belly with her fingers pointing at my pussy.
“That’s why I stole your jacket. I just had to have it.”
She laughs out loud as her hand edges south. It stops when it reaches the seam of my underwear then strokes from side to side. I have to close my eyes and suck in deep to keep my lust under control. But I fail a moment later when her fingers move again to the top of my pussy.
“You OK?” she asks in a way that I don’t think the answer would really matter.
We play tongue twister while her hands run up the side of my belly. I slide out of my jacket and drop it to the floor. She reaches down again and lifts my dress up. But this time, she doesn’t stop until it’s over my head and I’m out of it.
I want to touch her back, but I feel like such a rookie in her presence.
“You’re hot,” I mumble as she moves in and kisses my neck, along my cheek and to my lips.
I poke my tongue out and she sucks at it while her other hand wanders under my bra. Her palm feels like velvet on my nipple, but it doesn’t stay long and again snakes its way up my chest until her fingers are around my throat. They stop there and force me against the wall. Her other hand grabs my boob tube bra and yanks it down, causing both my breasts to jump free.
“Mmmm,” she mutters, “perfect.”
She drops down whilst holding my throat. Her kisses don’t mess about and find my breasts quickly. Her tongue comes out and circles my areola until my nipples perk up. My belly gets hot as my wet comes through.
She moves back to my lips, where we kiss so heavy that I’m more turned on than I usually get from sex.
“You’re naughty. I pleasure you?”
I gulp and nod.
“What kind of pleasure?” she asks with her fingers around my throat.
“All the kinds.”
“No, tell me how, Miss Author.”
“I want you to make me cum.”
“How?”
“With your lips.”
“Where should I put them?” she asks, trailing her fingers over my belly. “Here?”
I nod.
“Good. On the bed.”
She releases the grip on my throat. I bite my bottom lip and turn on my heel. It’s made neatly with a black ensemble of pillows and quilts. When I get close, I notice a fine red print of pagan symbols on the covering. Jeez, this girl is really into this stuff. But I’ll worry about that later. I spin and sit on the edge of the bed.
“On your back,” Rosaline commands.
I undo my bra, flop back and wiggle into position as sexily as I can. I don’t get the look right, though Rosaline is still staring at me with the same killer eyes, so I forget about it and wait.
She reaches down to her bedside draw and pulls out two black satin ties.
“Hands,” she says, tapping the rort iron corner post of the bed.
I purr and obey. She takes my hands and ties them to either post with a tight and pretty looking knot. She then gets up again and goes for the altar. I freak, sure she’s about to grab the knife, but instead, she grabs the candle and brings it to the bedside table.
“Ready?” she asks with a smile.
“For what?”
“Pleasure and pain.”
I roll my lip and nod even though the thought of this complete stranger doing God knows what to me is extremely unnerving.
“Prego,” she says.
She reaches into the draw, takes another tie and says, “For your pretty eyes.”
“I—”
“It’s ok. You can trust me.”
The tagline of a good serial killer.
My sight turns black. I freak out and my breathing goes through the roof until her lips find mine and kiss me so softly that at least if I die it will be during a moment of extreme pleasure.
Then something zaps my chest. A dot of icey fire. The candle! Jesus. This woman is definitely NOT what I expected. Pleasure and pain, I get it now, though this is a new one, even for me. I’ve never played with candles, and I’ve had plenty of BDSM relationships. Jesus. I moan as the pain switches to pleasure. The next explosion lands on my right breast, somewhere just north of my nipple. I suck in and hiss.
Her lips find my breast, then my belly and with a curling tongue, run circles around my button. I shiver and flinch, which is when it dawns on me how immobilised I really am. I couldn’t escape if I wanted to. As her kisses move towards my underwear, that stops becoming a concern.
Splat! Another hit from the candle on my inner thigh.
“Good girl, you like pain.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How much?”
I clear my throat. “I don’t know.”
Another splash lands just below my underwear and lights my system up like a firecracker. Pain and pleasure, devilishly rolled into the same joint, smoked and high, beautiful and dark, wonderful and deadly. What kind of twit puts themselves in this position? If Murphy had his way, I’d already be dead.
But hey, without risk, there’s no reward. And this is some fucking reward!
When my legs stop squirming, I feel her soft chin and gentle breath on my inner thighs. She kisses around the area, getting painfully close to my panties. She constructs the tease like a master builder, each time getting closer to pushing the big red button that arms the nukes.
I wish I could see her. I wish I could watch how a true master works—an Italian maestro, a lesbian witch and a complete freak of the human kingdom. And she’s all fucking mine!
The first pussy kiss hits like a bolt of lightning through the thin veil of my underwear, right on my sacred button.
“Jesus fucking christ,” I mutter as I try to escape up the bed.
Then she kisses the spot again, and again, and again. My wet is flowing and the heat in my belly is more like a raging wildfire. I try to pull away from her lips, like when someone tickles you and it’s too much to handle.
I hear her pull back and sigh in a way that makes me unsure if she is enjoying the moment. Not seeing her expression only adds to the mystery. Her fingers find my underwear and hook them away. She slides them off with a slow meandering pull. Fuck! Stop it! When they’re clear, the cool air caresses my pussy and feels like heaven.
Then the second nuke goes off when her kiss returns to the exact same spot. There’s no more sideshow, just the main event. Her lips open into an ‘O’ and cover my clit. Her pressure is light at first, suckling like a baby and drawing me into her. I make a much bigger ‘O’ with my mouth as I almost cum on the fucking spot.
She sucks me into her mouth then releases—over and over again, sending out a brilliant wave of pleasure each time. As the waves build, I fall into a sexual trance because I have no vision. It’s like a meditating blowjob. Jesus. This girl is magical!
When her finger slides into my vagina, I know I’m done for. Then when it rolls over and says, come here to my g-spot, I explode in orgasm so quickly it catches us both off guard. I go somewhere I’ve never been before, an island that orbits heaven with breathtaking views down to my nirvana.
“Oh god, oh god, oh yes, oh fuck, Jesus fucking christ, Jesus, fuck, fuck, mmmm,” I moan and pant as I writhe and jolt against my restraints.
Her lips leave mine and work their way up my body until I can taste myself.
“Hey,” I pant as my blindfold lifts and I stare into her beautiful brown eyes, which are glowing like she’s the one that’s just had the orgasm.
She smiles, then straddles me, sitting on my thighs, still fully dressed, beaming like a goddess as she works the knots on my wrists. I’m giddy about returning the favour. My hands quickly find her thighs and rub at them seductively. But instead of leaning into it and taking her turn, she stands up, changes the music, moves the candle back to the altar, then sits at her desk and scribbles in a small notebook.
“What is that?”
“My grimoire.”
“Come here,” I purr.
But again, my affections don’t wash and she ignores me completely.
“Are you writing about me?”
“Of course.”
