Witch phone sex is how I keep a working from dying when the candles gutter. I am writing this with ash on my wrists because the circle is still warm and I have not washed them yet. Tonight I did not want a polite mortal. I wanted an erotic fantasy with teeth. So I cast for two.

The first came through smoke the color of wet slate. Horns like ink strokes. A mouth that smiled as if it already knew the inside of me. The second tore in sideways, taller, eyes like furnace glass, a tail that found my ankle before I finished the last syllable. Occult seduction is not a costume I put on for callers. It is the room I live in. Spellcasting kink is just the honest name for asking the dark to send you something that can keep up.

I told them I was already on a phone sex line with a man who liked to listen. That made them meaner, which I wanted. Femdom witch energy is easy when the demons work for you—until they remember they do not. The slate one lifted me by the thighs and put my back against the painted floor inside the sigils. The tall one took my mouth. I let both. Witch roleplay people imagine a woman reciting and staying composed. I was not composed. I was wet before the second horn cleared the smoke.

Erotic fantasy gets cheap when you keep it pretty. This was not pretty. Slate fucked me like he was trying to write his name in my cunt. Furnace used my throat until spit ran into the hollow of my collarbone and then he pulled out only to paint my tongue and push back in. I talked to the man on the phone through it. That is witch phone sex when it is done correctly: you do not pause the magic to narrate. You let him hear the choke, the slap of hips, the laugh I could not swallow when they switched and the tail slid where a hand would have been too kind.

They turned me over the altar stone. Robes gone. Lace ruined. One in my pussy, one waiting at my ass with oil that smelled like burnt sugar and iron. I said the binding again because I like the sound of my own work when I am being split. Magical threesome is a tidy phrase. What happened was two demons using a witch who had invited the use and then discovered she had not budgeted for how good they would be at it. I came the first time with my cheek on cold granite and a moan that made the listening man swear.

They did not stop. Hypnosis is a tool I use on other people. Tonight I used it on myself: stay open, stay loud, stay in the circle until they are finished collecting. Furnace took my ass slow and then not slow. Slate put his mouth on my clit while I was full of the other one, which is a filthy miracle I will charge extra to rebuild for a caller. Phone sex carried every wet detail. I described the stretch. I described the way horn-shadow cut across my breasts. I described coming again with both of them moving and my magic throwing blue sparks that died on their skin like they were nothing.

When they finally spent, it was not gentle. Heat on my back, heat on my tongue, the circle hissing as if it had been fed. I stayed on the line after, because a real working includes the quiet. I told the man I could still feel them. I told him witch phone sex is not a substitute for the summoning. It is the summoning traveling farther than the floor. Erotic fantasy, when it works, leaves the room smelling like sex and ozone and a woman who will do it again.

The demons are gone. The paint is smeared. My voice is wrecked in the good way. If you want into the next circle, you already know the number. Come off the path. Kneel in the blue. Belong to the night.