The Sacrifice by Jessica Gadziala



I came harder than I think I had in decades.

Maybe ever.

It wasn't until I was done that I realized the witch must have been able to see me in the mirror like I had seen her. She had been watching me jerk-off while she bathed.

She should have been horrified.

But that almost looked like desire in her eyes...





Chapter Three





Lenore





I'd never seen a demon in the flesh.

Sure, there had been the man who brought me my food each day. If I remembered correctly, he'd called himself Minos.

But when he'd come down the stairs, he was in his human flesh.

Minos was striking in appearance. That was the only way I could describe him. He had unusual features that shouldn't have worked together, but somehow did.

He had a square face with deep indents under his cheekbones, a wide mouth, a thin, but proportionate nose, rounded eyes. He had long, dark hair. But the most striking feature of his face was the fact that he had one brown eye and one green. Yet both eyes seemed to have a hint of red in them, which was something I had never seen in humans or witches.

I wondered if it had something to do with being a demon.

But when this new demon came down the stairs, he had shed his human skin, and was partially changed into his demon form.

It should have been terrifying.

And it had been.

The talons, the horns, the strange reddish hint to his skin, the deep, grumbly quality to his voice, the forked tongue.

Terrifying, yes.

That was the point, after all.

To be scary.

But there was something else inside of me when I first laid eyes on him.

It was just as primal as fear.

But unexpected.

Warm instead of cold.

It was a heated sensation across my chest and down my stomach, dipping lower, culminating in a tingling sensation between my thighs.

We were a coven of women. There were no men in our coven. Sometime in our history, maybe during the Burning Times, maybe before, the history was murky, our High Priestesses decided men were a distraction from our purpose, from our powers.

As adults, after we were given our assignments, we were permitted to venture out of the woods to seek the company of men. In a superficial, physical way only.

No feelings.

No love.

Just sex.

Pleasure.

Reproduction, when we decided we were ready.

We only had daughters, continuing the cycle.

And while I had come of age two years before, I had yet to decide I was ready for the touch of a man. Which was likely because my mother, a woman of experience, had sat me down, and informed me that in her history, many of the men she had known the touch of simply didn't know how to touch her body the correct way, to make the primal magic sing across the nerve endings, cause those deep undulations inside.

We had always been empowered about our own pleasure, were taught the ways of our bodies, how we could make them explode with pleasure. Orgasm magic could help difficult rituals, that deep release of energy.

And with her words, followed by the words of some of the girls my age who had ventured out, coming back talking of pain and embarrassment and completion for the man that didn't bring about pleasure for them, I decided to delay that experience for myself, maybe until I thought I was ready to bear my first daughter.

So I wasn't familiar with the connection between desire and the presence of a male figure.

I hadn't been prepared for the heady, intoxicating sensation of it.

I shouldn't have even felt it.

This male was not even a man in the strictest definition.

He was male and he had male parts, but he was not a man.

He was a demon.

He was a creature of hell.

He was evil.

He stood against everything my coven and I believed in.

As he stood there as I pulled my clothing off in front of him, I expected to feel humiliation and rage.

What I felt, instead, was a warming sensation, making a flush move across my chest, up my cheeks.

As his hungry gaze moved over my bare body, there was a tightening in my core, making me turn suddenly away, to hide in the tub, focusing a moment to figure out the plumbing that I had heard about, but had never personally experienced.

The coven was, as the regular humans said, off the grid.

We had composting toilets, but no running water. Instead, we had wash basins and pitchers. And when we bathed, we either did so in the river, or we filled up a tub we kept near the river, that we then built a fire under.

Running water was one of the few things I was sure, as I lay back and soaped up my body, that the normal people got right.