Forbidden Ritual
Copyright© 2026 by Just Another Smut Writer
Chapter 3: The Book
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 3: The Book - Eighteen-year-old Evangeline doesn’t believe in witchcraft until, on Halloween, she casts a spell she’s not supposed to, and suddenly sex is in the air.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mind Control Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual Magic Light Bond Rough Spanking First Masturbation Oral Sex Halloween AI Generated
I settled cross-legged on the mattress and set the heavy tome before me. Something about it felt altered now—perhaps because I understood the locked office had concealed more than dust and forgotten ledgers, or perhaps because my mind had already begun spinning possibilities. My fingers found the edge and lifted the cover.
The handwriting covered every inch of the first page, crowding right up to the margins. No numbers marked the leaves. No contents page, no author, no clue to its origin. I turned several leaves at once. The entries leapt from topic to topic without warning. Some were in plain English; others twisted through syllables I had never heard spoken. Diagrams interrupted the text—perfect circles, sharp polygons, curling glyphs, and the occasional clumsy sketch of herbs, beasts, or constellations.
I stopped at a page chosen by chance. At its head, in larger script, stood the heading: Banishing a Wart. A short laugh escaped me. “That’s it?” The recipe called for dried herbs steeped into tea, followed by a chant and a precise sip taken at dusk. It felt absurd, almost childish. I turned onward.
The next title read: To Make an Enemy Stupid. I scanned the opening lines and paused. References to lunar phases, knots tied in strict sequence, and foreign syllables crowded the instructions. I flipped faster. Protection, sickness, dreams, storms, fortune, desire, calamity—every human concern seemed represented. One leaf promised to locate lost belongings; another claimed to silence nightmares. A third offered a method for speaking with the dead. I read that entry twice, stomach tightening, before dismissing the notion as nonsense. Grandma must have gathered old folklore, nothing more.
Yet the pages refused to feel like simple superstition. Their ages varied; some looked centuries older than others. Marginal notes appeared in several different hands. Certain spells had been struck through, others amended with fresh ink. Now and then a stray sentence surfaced that belonged nowhere—warnings rather than explanations.
I turned another leaf. A Spell to Draw Desyre caught my eye. I bent closer. Common kitchen herbs formed the base, but the directions soon veered into candle placement, spoken phrases, and a sequence of precise gestures. Halfway down the page, darker ink had been added across the bottom margin, newer than the surrounding text: Do not perform unless thy husband is present. He is a necessary anchor for the magicks. I read the line three times. “That’s ... odd.”
The language grew older as I continued, full of thee and thou, unfamiliar spellings, and commands that assumed success without explanation. Mix. Draw. Light. Speak. Wait. The warnings outnumbered the steps: Never speak the words before dawn. Never work the spell twice in one night. Never change the order. Never let another hand touch the vessel.
A fresh note crowded the margin of the following page: The first mistake is believing the magick is in the words.Beneath it, in yet another hand: The second is believing it is not. A chill slid down my spine. I glanced toward the bedroom door. Sunlight had begun to leak around the curtains; the house remained silent. When I looked back, the next leaf displayed a diagram I had not noticed before—a circle divided into segments, glyphs ringing the outer edge, and a single blank space at its center. One word had been written beneath: Threshold.
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