The Gypsy Pendant
Copyright© 2025 by LezDom
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A wife and mother, helps an elderly Gypsy woman who then enchants her and gives her a pendant which can give certain powers to Mary.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Drunk/Drugged Mind Control NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Lesbian AI Generated
“Honestly, ma’am, I saw you take that spill from across the street.” Mary knelt beside the crumpled figure, her nursing instincts kicking in before she even registered the humid New Orleans air clinging to her blouse. Conference lanyard still dangling from her neck, she gently checked the elderly woman’s wrist for a pulse. “Can you tell me your name? Where does it hurt?”
“Elara,” the woman breathed, her voice thin as old parchment. She winced as Mary helped her sit upright on the cracked sidewalk, her floral-print dress dusted with grit. “Just my pride, dear, and perhaps my hip.” Her trembling hand gripped Mary’s forearm. “Could ... could you see me home? It’s only two blocks.”
Mary didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” She slung the woman’s straw tote over her shoulder surprisingly heavy for groceries and hooked an arm under Elara’s frail elbows. Beneath the magnolia-scented breeze, Mary caught the faintest whiff of camphor and dried herbs clinging to the woman’s shawl. As they shuffled past wrought-iron balconies dripping with ferns, Mary kept her tone light. “You live in the Quarter long?”
“Oh, generations,” Elara murmured, her steps growing steadier despite her initial stumble. Her knobby fingers tightened on Mary’s wrist, not painfully, but with peculiar insistence. “This city remembers things ... holds onto them.” She gestured vaguely toward a peeling turquoise door crowned by a crumbling gargoyle. “Almost there.” Behind her clouded eyes, a sharpness flickered hungry and appraising as she studied Mary’s concerned profile. Perfect, Elara thought. Strong hands, kind heart. And that lovely flush of virtue. She’d watched the nurse from her second-floor window all week: the way men lingered on her stride, the tired warmth in her eyes when she’d check her wedding ring. Such ripe innocence needed ... redirecting.
Inside Elara’s dim cottage, Mary blinked. Dust motes danced in shafts of late-afternoon light cutting through heavy velvet drapes. The air hung thick with incense something resinous and ancient overpowering the damp plaster smell. Every surface cluttered: jars of murky liquids, desiccated roots dangling from rafters, feathers pinned above a cracked mirror. “Sit, child,” Elara commanded, pointing to a worn velvet armchair beside a cast-iron stove. “You will take tea.” It wasn’t a question. Before Mary could politely decline, Elara shuffled into the shadowed kitchenette, her movements suddenly fluid, unburdened. Mary’s fingers traced the armchair’s embroidery strange symbols stitched in tarnished silver thread. Unease prickled her skin like static.
Elara returned with chipped china cups rattling on a tray. The steaming brew smelled of cloves and earth, bitter beneath the sweetness. Mary sipped politely; the liquid burned her tongue pleasantly. A sudden curiosity overcame her. “Elara ... your accent,” Mary ventured gently. “I can’t quite place it. Reminds me of Eastern Europe, but ... older?”
The woman chuckled, a dry rustle like autumn leaves. She settled opposite Mary, her clouded eyes suddenly bright and piercing. “Older indeed, child. Much older.” She took a deliberate sip, her gaze locking into Mary’s. “My blood sings with the Danube’s ancient currents. I am Romani what you might call Gypsy.” A slow, knowing smile spread across her wrinkled lips. “And within that blood runs the lineage of the Drabarni. Sorceresses.”
Mary smiled faintly, a touch condescending, and gave a soft laugh. “Sorceresses? That’s ... quite something, Elara.” She meant it playfully, gently dismissing the woman’s fanciful claim. Nurses dealt in blood pressure and broken bones, not spells. Yet, as Elara leaned forward, her voice dropping into a melodic cadence that seemed to vibrate in the incense-thick air, Mary felt an unexpected lightness seep into her limbs. The room softened at the edges. The bitterness of the tea faded beneath a spreading warmth pooling in her belly, a strangely pleasant buzz humming under her skin. Elara had slipped potent herbs into the brew not just calming chamomile, but roots known to dissolve inhibitions and stir dormant embers.
Elara’s hand moved then, startlingly swift. It settled lightly on Mary’s knee, where her skirt had ridden up slightly, exposing skin above her stocking. The touch was cool, dry, and deliberate. Mary jolted, a sharp intake of breath catching in her throat. Her professional detachment flickered wildly. She should pull away, stand up, make an excuse. But the warmth flooding her system intensified, transforming the initial shock into a slow, liquid heat radiating upward from her core. Elara’s fingers, surprisingly strong beneath their papery skin, began a slow glide upwards along the sensitive inner curve of Mary’s thigh. “So much tension you carry, dear nurse,” Elara murmured, her voice low and hypnotic, weaving through the herbal haze clouding Mary’s thoughts. “So much duty ... such hidden fire.”
Mary gasped again, louder this time, as those fingers reached the damp silk of her panties. Elara didn’t hesitate. Her palm pressed firmly against the soaked fabric, feeling the heat radiating through it. Mary’s hips lifted involuntarily off the velvet cushion, seeking pressure. Elara’s fingers dipped beneath the elastic waistband, sliding unerringly through slick, swollen folds. The sensation was electric, immediate, stripping away any lingering pretense of resistance. Elara’s touch wasn’t hesitant or exploratory; it was knowing, ancient, finding the swollen bud with unnerving precision. Mary cried out, a ragged sound torn from deep within her, as Elara’s thumb circled firmly while two fingers plunged deep inside her. The room swam – the jars of roots, the incense smoke, the embroidered symbols – all dissolving into a pulsing vortex of pure sensation. Her hands clenched the armrests, knuckles white, as Elara stroked ruthlessly, dragging her towards a precipice she hadn’t consciously approached in years.
“Shhh, child,” Elara husked, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Let the city hear your song.” Her other hand moved swiftly, deftly unbuttoning Mary’s blouse, peeling it away from sweat-damped skin. The air, thick with incense, felt cool against her exposed breasts. Mary’s bra followed, discarded like discarded propriety. Elara’s gaze wasn’t lecherous; it was appraising, possessive. Mary felt utterly exposed, pinned beneath that ancient stare, the relentless rhythm of Elara’s fingers inside her both punishment and deliverance. She arched, a low groan escaping her lips, her body betraying her mind completely. Elara withdrew her fingers, slick and glistening, bringing them to her own lips with a dark hum of appreciation. “Sweet fire,” she murmured. Then, with surprising strength, she pushed Mary’s legs wider apart, kneeling down onto the worn rug between them.
Mary gasped anew as Elara’s head dipped. The first touch of that wrinkled mouth against her inner thigh sent jolts of shocking pleasure. The rasp of Elara’s breath against her damp skin, the scrape of her silver hair brushing Mary’s belly it was obscene, impossible. And then Elara’s tongue touched her. Directly on the swollen, desperate nub Elara’s fingers had teased moments before. It wasn’t tentative; it was an assault. Elara lapped and sucked with fierce, unwavering focus. The world narrowed to the wet heat, the rasping scrape of Elara’s tongue, the scent of her own arousal mingling violently with the heavy incense. Mary cried out, her hands flying not to push away, but to tangle in Elara’s silver hair, pulling her closer, needing the pressure, the friction, the oblivion. The sensations built with terrifying speed, a pressure cooker nearing explosion. Her thighs trembled violently around Elara’s head. A white-hot coil tightened deep within her belly, pulling tauter, tighter
It shattered. Mary arched off the chair as if electrocuted, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat that echoed against the cluttered walls. Pleasure detonated through her in blinding waves, utterly consuming her. Her vision whited out. Her muscles seized. She convulsed against the velvet fabric, utterly lost. Never, her mind screamed incoherently amidst the sensory meltdown. John ... never ... not like this ... this explosion... The intensity was terrifying, obliterating. It felt less like pleasure and more like a primal force tearing her apart, leaving her utterly undone, gasping against the armrest as the tremors slowly subsided.
She collapsed backwards, utterly spent. Her limbs felt boneless. The heavy incense pressed down, thick and cloying. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, the ceiling a blur of cracked plaster and shadowed rafters. Slowly, her gaze drifted downward. She was slumped awkwardly on the floorboards now, the velvet chair looming beside her. Directly above her, Elara stood silently. Her floral dress was hitched high around her waist, revealing pale, wrinkled thighs and the dark, sparse triangle beneath. Mary stared, uncomprehending, directly into the folds of Elara’s sex, the intimate scent – musk, damp earth, something ancient – flooding her senses anew.
“Attend to me,” Elara commanded, her voice devoid of its earlier honeyed cadence. It was stone, sharp and demanding. Her clouded eyes bored down, holding Mary’s gaze captive. “Eat.” The single word hung in the heavy air, a stark imperative. There was no request, no seduction left.
Mary didn’t hesitate. The herbs still burned in her veins, drowning reason, amplifying sensation until her own will felt like a distant memory. Instinct coiled deep within her belly – raw, obedient, hungry. Without thought, her head lifted from the dusty floorboards. Her hands slid instinctively under Elara’s thighs, pulling her closer. She buried her face against the thinning silver curls, inhaling the potent musk – damp earth, ancient skin, and the tang of arousal. It should have repelled her. It didn’t. It electrified her. Her tongue swept out, broad and seeking, tracing the wrinkled folds with fierce urgency. The taste exploded on her senses – salt, iron, something deeply primal and impossibly sweet beneath the bitterness. It filled her mouth, coated her throat, an essence both foreign and intimately familiar.
Elara gasped sharply above her, a sound like cracking ice. Her fingers tangled painfully in Mary’s dark hair, pulling her deeper, grinding her face harder against her sex. “Yes!” she hissed, her voice thick with command and triumph. Her hips began a shallow, rhythmic rocking against Mary’s mouth. Mary devoured her, laving her stiffening bud, plunging her tongue deep, lapping at the slickness that flowed freely now. The rhythm consumed her; she became nothing but the mouth servicing Elara’s pleasure. Her own damp thighs clenched uselessly against the cool wood floor beneath her, aching echoes pulsing low in her own core. She felt Elara’s inner muscles flutter, tighten, then clamp down hard around her probing tongue. The old woman froze for an eternal second, suspended, before a low, shuddering groan tore from her lips. Her entire body trembled violently, her grip on Mary’s hair becoming almost painful as wave after wave of release crashed through her. Mary felt it – the pulsing contractions against her tongue, tasted the sudden flood of complex fluids – and moaned helplessly into Elara’s sex, her own hips lifting unconsciously off the floor, seeking friction she couldn’t reach.