Jun 032015

Magic is all about the confidence. No demon from the outer realms listened to a wizard who couldn’t speak in front of a crowd. Covens have no use for those who can not dance in public. If you can’t believe in yourself, why should anyone or anything else? When it comes to magic, confidence is the first power one should master.

Confidence was the reason I was doing something really stupid this morning.

In front of me were a dozen different pornographic magazines. They were from the mid-seventies but more specifically, they were copies of magazines I had stolen from my father when I was a teenager. These were my first glimpses into the naked female form and these images were engraved into my sexual identity.

See, I had a pet theory. Forty years ago, millions of men and women shared in a joint erotic fantasy. Before the internet divided our desires among a million websites, dirty magazines were the crossroads of our libido. Millions of people masturbated to the same images. Together they gave offerings of seed and pussy to the same Goddesses. Such focuses of devotion and sacrifice might still exist, waiting for more worshippers.

Select images had been torn from the magazines and arranged in a circle around me. Miss Playfriend April 1976’s golden tits were in front of me. To my right was Apartment Pet of the Year for 1974 and her gorgeous long hair. To my left was the busty African-American curves of City Cutie July 1971 .Behind me was the furry bush of an unnamed model from the December 1979 issue of Party Fair.

It had taken me awhile to find these issues. It had taken even longer to arrange in them the proper design. I had to figure out the design for myself as none of my colleagues were any help. It was the consensus of the magic community that what I was doing was impossible.

Which is exactly why I was trying to do it. Confidence is what drives magic. It is also what drives us over the cliff.

I began my special breathing. I called on the names of the women that aroused me when I was young. I focused on the qualities of these women that were unique and those qualities that they shared. I reached out with my mind and heart.

The pulsing of my cock knocked at the gate.

The gate opened.

Musty smell of hot pulp paper. Perpetual sunlight. The silence of the static page.

Friendly smile that knows your secrets. Long brown hair cascading down a bare back. Perky white breast surrounded by tan lines.

No voice. Breasts measurements followed by hips and ass. Turned on by assertive men. Turned off by procrastination. Gemini.

Ass fits in my hand. Breasts press against my chest. Lips open for mine. Eyes delighted.

Kiss. Bodies grind. Hands grab breasts, hips and ass at the same time. Silky hair embrace.

Words whispered. Promises made. Acceptance granted.

Cock erupts. Spilt shower runs down tanned thighs.

Rustle of pages. Another room. Shag carpet presents dark curves. Open thighs leading to night forest.

Giant dark breasts overflow from hands. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze but never feel. Dark nipples forever erect.

Bright eyes playing. Luscious lips gasping. Royal cheekbones. Afro halo glistening.

Beautiful ass. Divine perfection. A dark moon to rule lustful wolves.

No words. No history. No future. Single moment of eternal lust.

Open mouth. Clear invitation. Invisible cock slipped between lips. Seed drained down willing throat.

Flipping pages. Concrete pool. Sun kissed body.

Blonde waves. Hairspray ocean. Platinum depths. Brown blindfold sunglasses. Cherry red lip promise to suck.

Wet breasts. Discarded bikini flotsam. Slick skin aura. Long legged mermaid.

Dive in with her. Water is hot and dry. She reaches and takes my unseen cock.

No thoughts. Stream of purple prose at the edge of consciousness. Words pulled from thesaurus float alongside naked body. Needless drops of erotica in ocean of lust.

She pulls me in. Her pussy is the pool. I come and she swims in my seed.

Pages stick. Ads for cigarettes. Subscription card promises.

Shadow bedroom. Vaseline haze.

Naked queen on wicker chair throne. European eyes. Disdainful lips. Bad girl from next door.

Pale breasts. Slipping bra strap. Single beam of light kissing pink nipple.

Looks away from me. Cares nothing for my approval. No attempt at seduction for she is seduction.

No identity. Fictions biography. Birthed in color photographs.

Our bodies join. Cock between held breasts. Impersonal object meets irresistible urge. Seed flows over marble curves.

Pages turn. Mind resists. Large breasts, small breasts, tanned and pale, held and stroked pass before me.

More seed. More desire. Fabricated Goddesses that hunger.

So much hunger.

I awoke. A mess of semen filled my lap. My cock ached with the soreness of an orgy. My wrists hurt almost as bad.

I laid back and touched the floor. Every sound of my home was a comfort. My eyes darted around me as I tried to assure myself that I existed in a world with three dimensions.

A laugh bubbled from lips. People said it was impossible. I had proved them wrong. I had opened a gate that no one thought could be opened.

There was the flipping of pages and my laughter died. Opening gates were one thing, but closing them could often be much harder.

Oh well. I was confident I could do it.

  4 Responses to “Fiction: At the Gate of Pages”

  1. This is poetry.

    Very HOT poetry.

    xx Dee

  2. This might be my favorite one to date.
    Really enjoyed the whole idea of the collective pornographic-subconsciousness and tying it magic.
    Aleister Crowley would have been so pleased with this.

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