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 Mind Control Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual Magic Light Bond Rough Spanking First Masturbation Oral Sex Halloween AI Generated
Then my gaze slid toward the bed.
The grimoire still lay hidden beneath the covers. I knew I should leave it there, untouched. Instead I reached for it, fingers sliding under the blanket until they met cool leather. I pulled the book free and opened it to the marked page.
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: candles, herbs, salt, ash, iron, rose petals, and several other items. I remembered the jars and bundles I had found in Grandma’s office last weekend. Every single one of them matched.
I sat straighter. It could not 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 was not my husband; we had never even kissed. Then the wording caught my attention. The book did not say beloved, or intended, or the man you wished to marry. It simply said husband. I read the sentence once more. A necessary anchor. My eyes drifted toward the bedroom door. Lucas was downstairs, only a short distance away. I wanted him to be my husband one day. The thought warmed my cheeks. Maybe that counted. At least, I wanted it to count.
I wondered what “present” truly required. Did he need to stand inside the circle, or touch me? The spell was ancient; perhaps the instructions were stricter than modern circumstances allowed. He was in the same house. That had to be close enough.
I whispered the words anyway. “Future husband.” They sounded foolish, yet they steadied me.
The next page revealed more instructions. The practitioner must prepare the materials, arrange them precisely, and keep the intended person firmly in mind throughout the working. The emphasis on thought suggested the mental link mattered most. I decided the intention itself would serve as the connection.
I closed the book, then opened it again. I was going to try. I did not truly believe in magic, but there was no harm in the attempt. If nothing happened, I would simply have confirmed the ritual was nonsense. If something did happen ... I refused to finish that thought.
The clock read 11:42. Music and laughter still drifted through the floorboards. Lucas remained below, close enough for whatever the spell demanded.
I stood. Everything I needed waited in Grandma’s office. I slipped my shoes back on, tucked the grimoire beneath my arm, and left the bedroom. The hallway was empty. I moved quickly, unlocked the office door, and stepped inside.
The same strange sensation greeted me, as though the room had been waiting. I went straight to the cabinet. Salt, ash, rosemary, iron, rose petals, candles—each item sat exactly where I had left it. One by one I gathered them, struck again by how perfectly they matched the spell’s requirements. Grandma had not merely collected oddities; she had possessed precisely what this ritual needed.
Standing in the center of the office with the final candle in hand, a new thought surfaced. Perhaps she had performed the spell herself. The idea sent a shiver through me, but I pushed it aside. Tonight was not the moment to dwell on that.
I returned to my bedroom, locked the door, and set the grimoire on the dresser.
For several seconds I simply stared at the open grimoire, the candlelight trembling against the aged pages.
This was absurd.
I was eighteen, dressed in a cheap angel costume—white wings, a glittering halo, a dress that clung to my hips like a second skin.
I had just pilfered a handful of dried herbs, powdered bone, and a vial of midnight oil from my deceased grandmother’s occult cabinet, all because a boy I’d barely spoken to at a party hadn’t spared me a second glance.
There was no conceivable way this could end well.
A soft, nervous laugh escaped me.
“Okay, Evangeline,” I murmured to the empty room, as if coaxing a shy friend into a dare. I turned the brittle pages, the ink smelling of dust and old secrets.
I laid out each ingredient exactly as the ritual demanded: the crushed mandrake root at the north point, the vial of oil smeared in a thin line eastward, the bone shards arranged in a crescent west, and the dried lavender tucked beneath the southern candle.
I lit the four black candles, their flames sputtering to life, casting wavering shadows that danced across the plaster walls.
I traced the sigil shown in the illustration with a fingertip dipped in rosemary‑infused water, feeling the faint tingle of anticipation prickle my skin.
Then my eyes caught a word I’d missed in my haste.
It hadn’t been there before—or perhaps I’d simply skimmed over it, too eager to begin.
The instruction did not read “stand within the circle.”
It read, “stand naked within the circle.” A flush crept up my neck, but the absurdity of the moment had already stripped away any semblance of modesty.
I was alone.
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