Forbidden Ritual
Copyright© 2026 by Just Another Smut Writer
Chapter 8: Drawing Desyre
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 8: Drawing Desyre - 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 Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual Magic Light Bond Rough Spanking First Masturbation Oral Sex Halloween AI Generated
My gaze slid toward the bed.
The grimoire still lay hidden beneath the coverlet. I knew I should leave it there. Instead I reached under the blanket until my fingers met cool leather, pulled the book free, and opened it to the page I had marked.
A Spell to Draw Desyre.
The title looked different now. Before, I had read it with idle curiosity. Tonight the words felt urgent, almost hungry. My fingertip traced the list of ingredients: black candles, rosemary, salt, ash, iron filings, chalk. I thought of the jars and bundles in Grandmother’s office, the teacup of chalk sticks, the drawer of hand-poured candles. Every item matched.
I sat up straighter. It couldn’t be coincidence.
I turned back to the opening lines and read the warning again.
Do not perform unless thy husband is present. He is a necessary anchor for the magicks.
Disappointment struck first. Lucas wasn’t my husband. We had never even kissed. Then the wording snagged. The book didn’t say beloved or intended or the man you wish to marry. It said husband. A necessary anchor. I glanced at the door. Lucas was downstairs, only a short distance away, and I wanted him to be my husband someday. The thought warmed my cheeks. Maybe that counted. At least, I wanted it to.
I wondered what present truly required. Did he have to stand in the circle? Did he have to touch me? The spell was ancient, and its instructions might be stricter than modern life allowed. But he was in the same house. That had to be close enough.
“Future husband,” I whispered. It sounded foolish, but it steadied me.
The next page set out the working. I would prepare the materials, arrange them precisely, and keep the intended person firmly in mind throughout. The emphasis on thought suggested the mental link mattered most. My intention would have to serve as the connection.
I closed the book, then opened it again. I was going to try. I didn’t believe in magic, so there was no harm in it. If nothing happened, I would have proved the ritual was nonsense. If something did happen ... I refused to finish that thought.
The clock read 11:04. Music and laughter still drifted through the floorboards.
I settled the halo back on my head, slipped my heels on, tucked the grimoire under my arm, grabbed the key to Grandmother’s office, and unlocked the door. The hallway was empty. I moved quickly up the stairs and into the office, and the same strange sensation met me, as though the room had been waiting. I went straight to the cabinet. Salt, ash, rosemary, iron filings, the teacup of chalk, the matches from the drawer, four black candles. Each item sat exactly where I’d left it. Grandmother hadn’t merely collected oddities. She had kept precisely what this ritual needed.
Standing in the middle of her office with the last candle in my hand, a new thought surfaced. Perhaps she had performed the spell herself. A shiver ran through me, and I pushed it aside. Tonight was not the night to dwell on that.
I carried everything back to my bedroom, locked the door, and set the grimoire on the dresser.
For a long moment I just stared at it. This was absurd. I was eighteen years old, dressed as an angel, about to perform a ritual from a dead woman’s book because a boy hadn’t looked at me twice. There was no conceivable way this could end well. A small, nervous laugh escaped me.
“Okay, Evangeline,” I murmured, as if coaxing a shy friend into a dare.
I turned the brittle pages, which smelled of dust and old secrets, and followed the instructions exactly. I drew the circle on the floorboards with chalk, wide enough to stand in, then marked the four directions. A black candle went at each point. At the north I set a pinch of salt, at the east the iron filings, at the south a sprig of rosemary, at the west a dish of ash. I lit the candles one by one, and their flames sputtered up, throwing wavering shadows across the plaster. Last, I traced the sigil from the illustration with a fingertip dipped in rosemary water, and my skin prickled.
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