A Secret of Witchcraft

A Secret of Witchcraft - A Young Witch Masturbates Her Way Into College

by A_Little_Show

This is a prequel to "Another Secret of Witchcraft" but can be read alone.

I'm going to tell you the secret of witchcraft. You won't believe me anyway. That's the way witchcraft works. There's always a logical explanation. I spent a week casting a spell for snow in the sweltering summer. Some expert on TV talked about a "thermal inversion producing small granule hail". I can't prove it wouldn't have happened without my spell. Go ahead and think I'm delusional. I believe in coincidence. I experience it so often I call it witchcraft.

I started out casting spells for every odd whim that crossed my mind. I saw no harm in it. Most early spells were more fantasies that fizzled anyway, but I kept doing it. It's probably an addiction at this point. I don't want to stop. Witchcraft is fun even when it doesn't amount to anything.

I used to watch reruns of a TV show where a witch wiggled her nose to cast spells. I find wiggling my clitoris much more effective. I discovered the technique about the same time my spells started working. It could be coincidence. I'll keep doing it my way. Nothing beats the double pleasure of a mind bending orgasm and a world bending spell. I just have to be more discreet than the TV witch.

Carefree days filled with daydreams and spell casting lasted a long time. Then, I read a short story called "The Monkey's Paw" for school. In the story, a married couple got a talisman that would grant three wishes. The husband wished for money to pay off his house, and shortly later, his son died in an accident. The settlement for his son's death exactly matched the amount of money needed to pay off the house. The wife wished for the son to come back and live at home, but the son was horribly mangled and had been buried for a week. As the zombie son pawed at the locked front door, the husband used the last wish for his son to be dead and in the grave. The story scared my pants back on, and after that, I tried to be more circumspect with spells.

Thank goodness I'd never used witchcraft for money. A simple life brought everything I wanted that money could buy. My father once said, "The secret to happiness is not wanting too much." He also said, "The way to make ends meet is to never let them get too far apart." It worked for us. I never noticed my witchcraft bringing misery exactly, but sometimes I didn't like the way things worked out. I could see how spells might go catastrophically wrong. I swore to myself I'd only use it for little things and certainly not for money.

As a kid, I was alone but never lonely. The other kids played together at recess. I wandered around the playground lost in my imagination. I was the "weird" kid, but it was fine. It never bothered me until I got a little older. By the time I started high school, I started feeling left out of the apparently fun things my peers were doing. I'd see them kissing in the parking lot. I'd eavesdrop on them talking about sexy things. I'd never seen a boy naked, and the thought of sexual intercourse actually repulsed me, but my imagination ran wild. I fantasized that all the boys and some of the girls wanted me. That was the key. I wanted to be wanted. Then it would be up to me what tokens of affection I might give in return.

An event spurred me to action. I felt ashamed talking about it until recently. The boys ignored me, and the only girls who paid attention to me were mean. They mocked and taunted me. They told everyone in school I was secretly a boy pretending to be a girl. Some of the other kids refused to change clothes when I was in the locker-room. I took care of that by casting a spell to get out of taking gym classes. Anyway, I sometimes thought about smiting the mean girls with my mighty powers. I came close (pun intended), but I didn't do it because I took "The Monkey's Paw" warning seriously. I bottled up my emotions so nobody could see how unhappy I was.

One day, I asked a new boy who just moved to town if he wanted to hold my hand and eat lunches with me. I really wanted him to get naked for me so I could check out all the secrets of masculinity. I thought I better work up to that. He seemed to like me at first. We went for a walk on the mountain, and he slipped his hand into a back pocket of my jeans as we walked. I didn't mind. At lunches, I'd tell him the plots of books I adored. Within only a few days, he lost interest. He started sitting with some other girls at lunch, and I resumed my habit of eating in solitude.

In my hormone addled mind, I thought maybe I needed to give him something to keep him interested. I was in the habit of wearing baggy sweatshirts or thick wool sweaters. If I wore wool, I'd wear as silky camisole under the sweater to avoid the occasional scratchiness. I saw him alone at his locker after most people had already left for the day. I was on my way to detention because I was caught reading a paperback in Math class one too many times. I stepped back behind a corner. With my chest heaving and unable to catch my breath, I pulled the sweater over my head. I rounded the corner as nonchalant as the confident seductress I imagined myself to be. I bent over in front of him saying, "Let me help you with those books". I knew the pose would expose most of my breasts to him because the camisole was loose and hung down away from my chest. He glanced at me, looked away, and said, "I've tried to be nice. Return the favor by leaving me alone."

I was devastated. I blew off detention and walked the six miles home in freezing rain. At least wool can still be warm when it's wet. When I arrived, nobody else was home. If I could have talked to my dad, maybe I would have felt a little better. I cried. Then I took a hot bath supposedly to get my feet warm again. Before I even started the water running, I was already imagining a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I tried to cast a spell in the tub, but all it accomplished was chafing my unaroused nipples and vulva. I got out of the tub and trudged to the medicine cabinet where my father kept his straight razors. I took one out of its cardboard sleeve nicking a finger in the process. A few drops of blood hit the water, and I thought, "maybe just a little more to make the water pink." Over the course of a half hour, I sliced open an arm from my wrist to my elbow.

My mother found me resting despondently in a bright pink pool. She yelled at me. She made me get out of the tub, and then she used all of the first aide kit's bandaids to hold my wound together along the length of my forearm. The cut wasn't deep. "It's just a flesh wound," I said in a bad English accent. It was a quote from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail". Mom didn't get the joke. Later that night, Dad let me cuddle on his lap in his favorite chair. He didn't ask me why I cut myself. He just asked me not to do it again because he loved me and would miss me.

I decided I needed a steady boy who wouldn't be fickle. The spell I cast actually brought more joy and satisfaction than I expected. The trickster universe works in my favor sometimes. I knew I had to be careful. I thought I planned everything down to the finest details. The moment of intense release as I cast my spell left me trembling but certain of success.

The spell was clear and specific. I've since learned being so specific is like a challenge to the universe to surprise me anyway. I wanted someone I didn't already know to love me above all others. I had two reasons for puting it that way. First, the boys I knew were definitely not ones I wanted, and second, I didn't want to mess up any existing relationships between people I knew. I mean - dad should love mom more than anyone, plus, eew. A week later, Lloyd came into my life. He wasn't what I expected, but he certainly loved me once I started feeding him from the table. We became inseparable. He had a magic of his own, too. I'd see him watching me from the pasture by the high school and yet, somehow, he'd be at the end of the lane when I stepped off the bus.

I thought of Lloyd as my "familiar" because isn't that what witches call it? I told Lloyd my fears and dreams. He comforted me whenever I had a blue moment. He slept in my bed to keep me warm in winter. I didn't miss whatever else I expected when I cast the spell. Lloyd may have loved me above all others, but I couldn't truly return his love. I should've asked for a relationship of equals. Witchcraft can be tricky that way.

Lloyd had a gray muzzle when he came to me, and our time together was too short. One day, a Sunday morning when it seemed like everyone but me was at church, Lloyd and I went exploring up the mountain. We'd done it a hundred times before. That day, he never came back down. He lay to rest his old bones in a sunny glade, closed his eyes, and slipped away. I buried him there. I still talk to him when a fear or dream needs to be heard. He never had answered me, so nothing has really changed.

Lloyd dying reminded me to think about what I wanted in life. I certainly wasn't going to try and bring Lloyd back. I played with the idea of casting another spell - an even better one - asking for a lover. It didn't seem right though. I mean, wouldn't that be like taking advantage of someone? Would he or she have any choice? I decided I wouldn't use my power that way. Maybe I avoid "Monkey Paw" outcomes by thinking of others, or having good intentions, or because I offer to share my orgasms in exchange for coincidences. It makes sense to me. I don't tempt fate. She's a voyeur - not really a friend.

I didn't have any direction or goals. I'd spend most of each day reading romance novels from the library. I liked it when there was a man who couldn't be thwarted in his overpowering need to consummate his love. I daydreamed all through high school. Math was the worst. By amazing coincidence, the governor's task force reduced math requirements for high school graduation my year. A spell or two might have helped in other subjects too. I wrote a term paper that got me one of my few As. I made a paper collage that was displayed in the State House Rotunda along with student works from around the state. It's only coincidence that I was recovering from epic orgasms when I wrote the paper and made the collage.

Everybody I knew from school was getting married or pregnant or both. There's not much to do for money where I grew up. The only people who left our town either joined the military or went away to college. I decided to go to college.

Nobody in my family had ever been to one. I didn't have any money. Going to college was going to require some sweet witchcraft. I dedicated the better part of every day to it. In the mornings, I slid off my panties and absentmindedly caressed myself under the sheets. I indulged a favorite fantasy about nebulous boys masturbating over my nude body. It had never actually happened of course, and I didn't cast a spell for it. Some fantasies should remain only fantasies - a least for a while.

The self care and fantasy reliably got my engine purring, so I'd slip down the short hallway to the bathroom. Once in the shower, the real work began. I'd imagine myself walking through a green parklike setting surrounded by handsome fellow students and friends. I couldn't quite complete my spell with such a mundane image, so I'd add a fantasy about peeking on college men while they showered. I might mix it up imagining I had a roommate making love to a hunk on the lower bunk while I pretended to sleep on an upper bunk. I'd make eye contact with the guy just as he came inside my roommate. Sometimes I'd imagine a strategically placed mirror allowing him to watch me masturbate on the top bunk while he thrust like an animal into my roommate. By that point, the shower jet on the hood of my clitoris usually brought me over the brink, and I cast my spell in the rush.

Nothing obvious other than chafing happened that summer. With spells, you don't want to be too specific, but you still have to spell out what you want. The trouble was, I didn't know what to want. How could I pick one college over another? The only colleges I'd ever seen were in movies. I didn't know about applications or SATs. I decided to try taking things step by step. The first thing I wanted to do was see a college first hand, so I rocked out a modest orgasm and a spell for a way to get to a college.

The next day, I was walking past the only restaurant still open in town. It held on because the Greyhound Bus was never on schedule, and the driver let people off to eat instead of listening to them complain about missing lunch all the way to Charleston. There was also a fancy tour bus that passed through every month or so on the way to some mountain getaway for old people with money. The old people said, "Quaint this," and, "Charming that," and ate BBQ venison whether they knew it or not.

So, anyway, I was walking past the restaurant when my former English teacher stopped me on the sidewalk. "Good morning Andrea," she said, "I'm glad I bumped into you. Do you have any plans this weekend?"

"No, ma'am," I said with a grin just knowing a coincidence was about to unfold. "Why do you ask?"

"Ashely and Debra-Ann were gonna go to Columbus for a youth retreat this weekend, but Debra-Ann backed out. You know that family. They're about as reliable as a rusty gun, and they'd miss an appointment with Jesus himself if there was a bar on the way. Would you like to go with Ashely - so she's not alone on the bus?"

The teacher might have been implying she thought a church retreat wouldn't do me any harm. I never liked church. The paster got surly when I didn't pay attention, and with something as boring as one of his lectures from the pulpit, how could I possibly pay attention? Everyone in town gossiped when I stopped going, but my dad said I was being "home schooled" on the Bible. Enough people hated the pastor that home school Bible study got pretty popular.

I understood why a parent wouldn't want a teenager riding alone cross country on a bus. Plus, I'm sure Ashely's mom wanted me to make sure Ashely actually went where she said she was going. I never spent much time with Ashley because she's a few years younger than me, and she was one of those kids who prayed like an angel but slipped out of the house to sin at night. I learned the word, "hypocrisy", from my dad, or maybe school, but I learned how to apply it at church. Ashley might have been planning to sneak away for a forbidden weekend with a boyfriend.

"I've never been to Columbus," I replied. I don't know why I said it because everyone would have already known if I'd ever gone that far. "I'd be happy to go with Ashely."

My legs wobbled and my sandals scraped on the steps into the Greyhound. I'd never been out of the county and was about to travel more than 200 miles. Once aboard, I shivered with goose flesh. The short gray sundress I picked to keep me cool on a blazing August afternoon left me chilled to the bone in the bus's turbo-mega air conditioning.

Most seats were empty. Ashely sat across the aisle a few seats ahead of me and was hypnotized by the beat in her headphones. A group of Future Farmers of America sat in front and based on their conversation planned to get off at Charleston. A soldier slept several rows behind me. The arrangement granted relative privacy.

I slid my "Blue Light Special" nylon panties down being careful to smooth the dress under me so my bare skin wouldn't touch the seat. I worked up a little orgasm and cast a spell so people would coincidently fail to notice what I was doing. As I concentrated on a second bigger one, I focussed my energy on being more comfortable for the rest of the trip.

We arrived in Charleston minutes after I withdrew my slippery finger. The driver opened a luggage compartment for the FFA passengers. I asked for my bag, and the driver said, "it's against policy to take out a tagged item before its destination." He gave it to me anyway, and I dug out a hoodie I didn't remember packing and a pair of jeans.

The rest of the ride went much better. I probably looked odd wearing jeans under my dress and a sweatshirt over it. Ashley frowned but didn't comment. I'll usually pick comfort over style given half a chance.

A man with a guitar got on the bus at Portsmouth along the Ohio river. He played an old mountain song my mother sometimes hums. Everyone including the driver clapped when the song ended. He played a few songs from the radio too. Then he put the guitar away and asked, "Miss, do you mind if I draw a picture of you? I need something to keep my hands busy, and I've already played every tune I know." He said it in about the most charming way I ever heard.

"I don't mind," I said and moved to the aisle seat closer to him.

He rearranged himself a row ahead of me and dug a pad and a funny looking thick pencil out of a big pocket on the outside of his guitar case.

"Come a little closer, and stretch your legs toward me."

When I did what he asked, he added, "Now tip your head back and look to the side."

Nobody ever drew a picture of me before. My art education hadn't got past finger paints and collages. The drawing took forever, and my mind wandered until I half forgot what he was doing. I asked him, "where are you headed?"

"I'm getting off in Columbus," he said. "I'm teaching for a year as a visiting artist."

"Where will you teach?" I pictured him in an elementary school.

"It's a place called Columbus College of Art and Design."

I absentmindedly scratched my nose and smelled a coincidence along with my lingering musk. "So it's a college? What's it like?"

"It's a small non-profit college with about 1,500 students, but it has a great reputation. It's been around for over 100 years. They're giving me a studio and paying me to draw - as if I wouldn't do it for free," he scoffed and grinned.

It sounded like a manageable number of students to me. One of my fears was getting lost in the kind of crowds I'd seen at college football games on TV. 1,500 was about the number of people in my town.

"I'm Andrea," I said while extending a hand.

"Calder," he replied. He shook my fingers instead of my whole hand.

A little while later, he asked, "Would you like to see?" He seemed proud of himself.

The picture didn't look much like me. I kind of picked out my legs and the dress. He drew a mess of squiggles for my head.

"You don't like it?" he asked.

"It's very good," I said wondering if he fibbed earlier or if college standards were that low.

Columbus blew my mind when we drove into the downtown bus garage. I'd never seen anything like it except on TV. Ashley had been there before and knew the way from the bus station. I got sweaty walking the half dozen blocks to the church if you could call it that. It was so big, it could swallow the biggest building back home.

Once inside, Ashley watched my bag while I went to the ladies room. I took off the sweatshirt and jeans. As long as I had a bit of privacy, I worked up a little spell to be excused from sitting through boring church meetings. The climax refreshed me even though I had to be quiet because someone else walked in the bathroom half way through.

When I came back to the lobby, an old lady pointed me to the registration table. I signed my name, address, emergency contact, and age into the book. The woman guarding the paperwork frowned and grumped, "You shouldn't have come to this retreat, dear. It's for under eighteen only."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Is there anything I can do now? It's Friday night. I don't think I can get a bus home. I don't have anyplace else to stay, and I don't have any money."