Is there anything sweeter than these hours of love,
when we’re together, and my heart races?
For what is better than embracing and fondling
when you visit me and we surrender to delights?

If you reach to caress my thigh,
I will offer you my breast also —
it’s soft; it won’t jab you or thrust you away!

Will you leave me because you’re hungry?
Are you ruled by your belly?
Will you leave me because you need something to wear?
I have chests full of fine linen!
Will you leave me because you’re thirsty?
Here, suck my breasts! They’re full to overflowing, and all for you!

I glory in the hours of our embracings;
my joy is incalculable!

The thrill of your love spreads through my body
like honey in water,
like a drug mixed with spices,
like wine mingled with water.

Oh, that you would speed to see your sister
like a stallion in heat, like a bull to his heifer!
For the heavens have granted us love like flames igniting straw,
desire like the falcon’s free-falling frenzy!


December 14, 2015


He finishes and he slides down my body, plopping down on the bed. I curl up next to him and get into position: right hand between my legs, left arm draped over his chest. I have my face turned up toward him and he, in the breathy aftermath of his own orgasm, begins to talk. “So, I’m in a park.”

As he spins a sexy nighttime story, I begin to touch myself. The tales differ slightly in location, but the characters always remain the same. And I’m not one of them.

“I prefer a true story,” I told him when we started to do this on the regular.“Tell me about a sexual encounter from your past.”

“Really?”he asked. “You like that?”

“I do,” I responded.

“You want to hear about me and some other woman?”

“Yes,” I answer. “That’s what I want.”

I’ve been masturbating for as long as I can remember. During my childhood, it was completely nonsexual and simply something I did most nights before I fell asleep. I had a formula to my “feeling good,” which involved lying on my stomach, wrapping my blanket around my hand, and bringing the bundle between my legs. I’d rock back and forth with my blanket-wrapped hand between my legs until a warm, cozy feeling erupted from my gut and spread over my entire body. I’d continue to lie there on my stomach, enjoying the fuzzies; after a moment, I’d roll over, extract my hand, and fall into a deep sleep.

Today, my masturbating method is almost exactly the same as it was when I was five or six. I lie down on my stomach with my hand between my legs (the blanket has long since retired, but once in a while a crumpled bed sheet proves to be an excellent, familiar partner-in-crime) and move my pelvis back and forth across my palm. There is, however, one crucial addition to the formula: I envision a sexy couple as I work myself. The woman has a killer body with gorgeous breasts and the man usually has a salt-and-pepper hairstyle with a firm stomach. Sometimes, it’s their relationship to each other that turns me on. He’s the dean of affairs, she’s a top graduate student and they have sex in his office. She’s a senator, he’s a journalist interviewing her and they get it on in a beautiful hotel room. They’re two ex-lovers reunited in Milan on a business trip. Or, I recall in glorious detail the first love scene between Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore in The End of the Affair. My mother owned the movie on VHS and I’d watch the juicy parts in reserved, amazed silence some afternoons before she got home from work. This is all to say that during my masturbation sessions, I rarely imagine myself as a participant. Rather, I much prefer to watch two other humans do it on a desk, in a car, against the wall. Not in a porn, but in my mind with my eyes squeezed shut. Porn’s OK, don’t get me wrong; I do enjoy it once in a while. But truthfully, all I need is my own brain. I love masturbating. It’s quick, it feels amazing, I know just what I like, and I always, always come. And come hard.

When I’m in bed with a man, the process is similar: I masturbate and he provides the images for me. I’ve only been brave enough to try this with my past two partners, both of whom have been a little confused, but game. Prior to sleeping with these two men, my sexual encounters were chock full of “faking it” – and one can blame that on my incessant need to tie up every situation in a pretty little bow. Ending sex with a whispery, “Yeah, hold on, you can stop. I’m just not going to come,” seemed pathetic. “Wow, yes, yes, that’s it, oh my God, oh my God, yes!” conveyed something like This was great, I’m so glad we did this, and I’d be down to do it again! The guys were none the wiser and I felt content with the faking until I realized that, actually, maybe, it might not be so weird to ask a guy to simply tell me a story. It couldn’t be that much different than asking him to talk dirty to me (whatever that means – in my experience, asking a guy to talk dirty is just releasing his usage of the C-word thirty times in one twenty-minute sex session). After inquiring, “Really? You like that?” my current boyfriend has told me about the woman he fucked in a bar bathroom, another he met on an Amtrak, some threesome he had, plus a fictional fantasy about a particularly hot coworker. I’ve climaxed powerfully at every single drawn-out account. Sometimes, he plays with my breasts, which feels great and helps me get there. Other times, he tries to join me down below and I have to find a sneaky, sexy way to move his hand so I can continue the work on my own. I certainly love his fingers inside me when we start to fool around; but when it comes to having an orgasm, I need to do it myself.

To be clear: I’ve never had an orgasm during sex. Not even during oral sex, to which friends have exclaimed, “Seriously?” I’ve tried anal sex, which felt awesome, but still no dice. I’ve read plenty of women’s magazine articles that suggest touching myself to understand how I come, but I totally understand how I come and it has to be by my own hand. It’s a little disappointing; I wish my partner were more integral to the process. But he gets me off by telling me all about his naughty past with other women. And you know what, it’s just what I enjoy. He is integral, in his own way.

“What do you like about that?” he asked me once. “It’s the most…I don’t know…” he trails off. “It’s the most specific way to come. Why do you want to hear about other women? Why not yourself?”

I can’t answer. Is it because I don’t like to watch my own body? Is it because I don’t like to be in my own body? If I thought myself more attractive, would I orgasm without needing to imagine people with tighter abs, tinier waists, and higher tits? Is this another way that I don’t “live in the moment”? Do I have to literally extract myself from the current moment in order to come? Or, is this my body physicalizing my need to do everything myself? Why can’t I come when he’s the one touching me? If I love this man and love having sex with this man, shouldn’t I be able to let go in front of him? Shouldn’t I be able to release myself over to him?

“It’s just what I like,” I say, and drape my arm over his chest. “Now, tell me the one about the girl from that cafe.”

Source: How to Make Me Come

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December 14, 2015


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December 14, 2015


manifestation in magic

December 14, 2015


Magic is like water…it finds the easiest path to travel. It can and will display itself to you in the best/quickest/easiest way acceptable to you. As an entity, a cliché version of Merlin, for example; or, to the Witch inside you, this manifestation may appear as a Goddess, or an animal, or even a childhood playmate…


December 14, 2015


Uncrossing is used in Witchcraft and magick to remove evil influences, negative spells, and black magick. For the most part, an uncrossing ritual is done during the waning moon or during the dark moon, the few hours before the moon begins to wax. In some cases the energy will be sent directly back to the individual who sent it in the first place. However, sometimes this is not possible. If the identity of the individual is not known, or if the exact specifications of the original crossing ritual cannot be determined, then the energy is magickally eliminated, usually by forcing it into a proper receptacle that can be buried or burned.


Items needed: One black candle, salt, fireproof pot, black cord, and 150 proof alcohol or Florida water.

One hour before the moon begins to wax, when it’s at its darkest, set your altar with the necessary items. Cast your magick circle with the salt. Tie the black cord around the waist of the person on whom a negative spell has been placed 194 The Witch’s Master Grimoire and stand them in the center of the circle. Light the black candle and say with great force:

Fast as the wind, swift as the night, Banish the evil with the light. Seek thee out where ere thee be And invoke the law of three.

Light the firepot. Then, as you would do with smudge, stand arms’ length away and run the firepot up and down in front of the person. Still holding the pot, walk three times around the person, chanting:

I end your curses with power of thought, All your works have come to naught. Be gone, be gone, all evil rebound, Then perish and fade into the ground. As fire and flame, pure cleansing light Banish forever [insert name]’s plight.

Place the firepot on the altar. Untie the black cord and allow it to fall to the ground, still within the salt circle. Have the person step out of the circle. Place the still burning firepot on top of the spot where the person was standing. While the pot burns, both chant:

Thou who caused this torment bad, Shall live a life woeful and sad.

When the pot has completely burned out, extinguish the candle. Dig a small hole in the center of the salt circle and bury the cord and black candle. Cover with dirt. Pack up all your tools, turn, and walk away. Do not look back.

Lady Sabrina
The Witch’s Master Grimoire