Morrigan's Magical Date

Trevor Holloway leaned back in his chair, and looked across the table at his companion with a pleased look on his face. Morrigan tilted her head down in a gesture of faux demureness, the corners of her mouth turning up in a bemused smile which she concealed by taking a sip of her tea.

Trevor had dated every woman in the office except Morrigan, and now she had finally agreed to at least have coffee with him. And to Trevor, "dated" meant "slept with." Morrigan was alluring and somewhat mysterious ... some of the office gossip even said that she was a witch. Trevor didn't believe in witchcraft, but the rumor certainly added to his desire for her.

"So," he said, deciding to approach the subject head-on, as was his nature. "Is it true that you're a witch?"

Morrigan put down her tea and tossed her head slightly. "I do study some of the magical arts."

"Which ones?" he asked, spreading some butter on his croissant.

"Plant magic, primarily," she replied. "I read Tarot cards. The person who taught me gave me a little instruction in voodoo. And of course, Celtic magic."

"Of course?" Trevor asked.

"It's my heritage. Or perhaps rather, my inheritance." She paused and watched him. "You're skeptical?"

Trevor shrugged. "I don't really believe in the supernatural. But I'm intrigued. It's interesting."

"It is interesting," Morrigan replied. "And it really doesn't matter whether you believe in it or not."

He nodded, still smiling. She was being slightly aloof, but also somehow inviting. Like, "if you dare." And Trevor certainly dared.

"So," she said abruptly, "You want to have sex with me."

He twitched a bit at her forwardness, and cleared his throat. "Well, I'm sure that would be very ... enjoyable," he said, recovering. "If we enjoy ourselves at dinner and both want that."

She took another sip. "I've heard some of the women in the office say that you have quite an impressive penis."

He grinned widely. "So I've been told."

Morrigan shifted in her chair. "We can have dinner together. And if I decide to do more, you can come back to my house. And sex will involve you locking that impressive penis in a chastity cage, and kneeling naked in front of me and sucking my toes."

His eyes got wide for a moment, then he burst into laughter. "Yeah, I don't think that's going to happen. I mean, unless you really can work some kind of witchcraft..."

Morrigan just raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps we will see. Pick me up at eight on Saturday?"

Trevor was wildly amused. But also surprisingly aroused. And, he suddenly realized, extremely uncomfortably hard inside his slacks. "It's a date," he said.

Saturday morning Trevor drove down to an unfamiliar part of town and, after driving down several streets that didn't seem to be showing up on his Waze, parked his car and started walking.

He was excited about his upcoming date with Morrigan, but he was also very unsettled about her suggestion of what she would accept as intimate activity later tonight. The idea of being naked and caged, on his knees before her, was ridiculous ... but the image had invaded his dreams every night this week. And she did claim to be a witch. So he had decided to do a little research and invest in some precautionary measures.

He finally tried a narrow, unmarked street that was really more of an alley, and halfway down it found a half-flight of steps leading down to a garden apartment with a number that corresponded to the note scrawled by the bartender the night before.

The name on the mailbox was Loveridge. This was the place. He knocked on the door.

An older woman in a long flowing skirt and equally long curly hair opened the door. "Yes?"

"Mrs ... er ... Ms. Loveridge?"

"I am," she confirmed, looking him over. "But you may call me Madame Vadoma. Marik told me I should expect a visitor today. Come in."

She stepped back and he entered a small living room cluttered with silk lampshades and Victorian knick knacks. "Thank you," he said, feeling as if he should have a hat to take off. "Thank you for seeing me."

"How may I help you?"

"Well, I ... Madame Vadoma ... I understand that you are knowledgeable about ... magic."

"I am," she nodded. "Have a seat. May I get you some tea?"

Trevor didn't drink tea, but he felt he should accept. At her direction, he took a seat in an overstuffed velvet side chair, and waited for her to return. He watched her move gracefully into the adjoining kitchen. She was an attractive woman despite her age, he thought. He imagined she was quite beautiful fifty years ago. He could imagine her dancing by the firelight of a gypsy encampment.

She returned, set down a tea tray, and poured hot water into two cups, then took a seat across from him. "So tell me your story, Mister ..."

"Trevor," he filled in. "You can call me Trevor."

She smiled at his attempt at discretion. "Tell me why you are here, Mister Trevor."

"Well ... I am going to be spending some time ... this evening ... in the company of a woman who claims to practice ... witchcraft ..."

Madame Vadoma sat quietly, waiting for him to find the words.

"I would like to know what I might ... want to do ... to avoid ... any ..."

"Enchantments?"

He was going to say "spells," but her word seemed appropriate. He nodded.

"Enchantments of a ... romantic nature?"

"Ah ... er ... more of an ... erotic nature, I would say," he said, blushing.

Madame Vadoma was unfazed. "What kinds of magick does this woman practice?"

"She said, plant magic. Voodoo. And ... Celtic?"

"I see. Well, I can certainly offer you some protection against the common magic that a woman might use to ... seduce a man." She turned to her right and opened a drawer in an end table.
"Plant magic is simple. She will be using Artemesia or Henbane. Here, a potion of Verbana should shield you against that."

He took the vial from her. "Thank you."

Yes. That will be one hundred dollars."

He reached for his wallet, but she held up a finger. "Voudou, also simple. Here, just take this crucifix, and wear it around your neck. It is silver, and it has been blessed by an archbishop."

He took it from her and looked at it. It was actually an attractive piece; he wasn't religious, but he wouldn't object to wearing this simply as jewelry.

"Two hundred dollars," she intoned.

He nodded. This was getting to be an expensive date.

"Now, the Celtic magic. This is more powerful. You will need an incantation." Before he could ask a question, she had closed her eyes and raised a hand over his forehead.

"Tha mi a’ toirt meas air an leigheas a dh’ fhàg Diancecht na theaghlach, gus slàinte a thoirt dhaibhsan a fhuair e," she chanted. "I admire the healing which Diancecht left in his family, in order to bring health to those he succoured."

Trevor was impressed, despite his latent skepticism. Then he asked, "And what do I owe you for that?"

For the first time, her smile was genuinely warm. "Oh, dear boy, protection against Celtic sex magick is not for sale." She patted his hand. "It is my ... civic duty."

The clock on Morrigan's mantle struck midnight. Saturday was over.

Morrigan was seated in her favorite wingback side chair, sipping a bourbon. She was fully dressed in a silk blouse and black leather pants, although she had removed her heels some time ago. She crossed her legs and wiggled the crimson-nailed toes of her top foot.

Trevor was on the floor in front of her. Naked, except for a silver cross on a fine chain around his neck, and a stainless cage around his genitals. He slumped forward, almost resting his head on Morrigan's knee. His mouth was full of the bitter and salty taste of his own semen, which she had required that he lick off of her feet and the hardwood floor, after she had instructed him to spill it there. After that, the penis of which he was so proud had gone quite meekly into the chastity device which she had handed him. He had locked it shut and handed the key back to her.

He looked and felt drained, defeated.

She reached forward and tousled his hair, an act of mercy. "That was quite nice," she told him.

"I don't understand," he murmured.

"What don't you understand?"

He fingered his crucifix. "I ... I got protection against your spells ..." he said.

"Protection?" Morrigan asked. "Against ... magic?"

He nodded.

"Oh, but silly boy, I didn't use any magic."

He looked up at her, befuddled. "Then ... how?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps ... if you need an explanation ... pheromones?"

He stared at her. She shrugged again. "Poor Trevor. Maybe you should have worried less about magic, and more about ... science?"

Her lips curled up into a smile. She sipped her bourbon. "Or maybe," she whispered, "It's just ... me."

He swallowed hard. He realized that his imprisoned penis was trying desperately to get stiff already. And he suddenly knew that he was going to be submitting to her again, and there was nothing that could prevent it.