[[Author's Note: This is my entry into the 2020 Literotica Valentine's Day Story Contest. It contains themes of romance, cheating, occultism, and supernatural powers/entities.
Special thanks to Thesunmaid, for making some great suggestions.]]
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The theme of the day was perfection. Everything had to be perfect.
I pulled the heart-shaped spice cake out of the oven just before the timer went off and checked it with a toothpick. It was perfectly done, light and fluffy and magnificent. Wonderful. I sighed happily and put it on the cooling rack before turning to the freezer to check on my hardening chocolate-dipped strawberries. I whistled while I worked; it was difficult to contain my excitement for this evening. Valentine's Day was my favorite holiday.
I told my husband and my kids, and anyone who asked, that Valentine's was a sad day for me. That my father had died on Valentine's when I was a teenager, and I preferred to spend it by myself in his cabin in the upstate, putting flowers on his grave and reconnecting with his memory.
That was half true. My father did die on Valentine's when I was a teenager. I do come up to his cabin partly to see his grave. I take the time to do a dance on it, and spit on it, and -- depending on how many cups of coffee I'd had on the drive -- squat and piss on it. My father was more than a sonofabitch; he was a truly evil man, and I'm happy every time I see the sinking patch of dirt where I buried him.
I looked out the window at the snow piling up around the cabin and felt my heart flutter. My lover wouldn't be here until sunset, but I imagined I could already smell him. In spite of the fact that I spent all year trying not to think about him, the way his body pressed up against mine haunted my dreams. Now, waiting on his arrival at our little hideaway, I was a mess of nerves; I was as anxious as a teenager about to be picked up for the Prom.
I threw two more logs into the fireplace to get it nice and hot, then turned and surveyed the rest of the cabin. I'd shined up all the wood on the tables and the legs of the chairs, and vacuumed the last year's worth of dust out of the upholstery. The freshly scrubbed and oiled hardwood floors gleamed under the soft white light, and I smiled happily.
I crossed the living space and opened the door to the master bedroom. I had made the bed with fresh red linens and brand new pillow cases. Pillar candles, also red, were placed on the dresser, on the vanity, on the floor by the door and at each corner; I couldn't help but giggle at how wonderful everything was. How perfect. "Christine, you've outdone yourself this year," I said to myself as I sat down on the stool in front of the vanity mirror and began applying my make-up.
I was happy with my appearance; the only good thing my father had ever done was pass on his genetics. My deep red hair and piercing grey eyes came directly from him, as did my tendency to resist the effects of aging; even at twenty-eight I had to be prepared to be carded for beer. I was afraid of the day that I would get so old that my husband wouldn't find me attractive anymore; the way he ogled the high school girls at the bus stop in front of our house told me I didn't have much time. But my lover? We shared a special connection. I knew it in my heart; he would never reject me, never trade me in for another. I knew he would never abandon me. We were linked.
I finished my make-up and brushed my hair, humming a soft tune. My eyes sparkled back at me in the mirror and I cheekily blew myself a kiss. My husband might be too tired, or too stressed from work, or too caught up in his video games to be interested in taking the time to fulfill my needs, but I was ok with that. He didn't have to. On Valentine's Day, I always knew I was beautiful and treasured.
I finished my beauty rituals and went back to the kitchen; I dropped the steaks into a hot pan and set about frosting the cake, letting my knife carefully sculpt the cream-cheese frosting into a smooth finish while the smell of sizzling meat made my stomach rumble. I thought about snatching one of the strawberries out of the freezer; the "chef's prerogative" was to "test" the dessert before it was served, after all. I resisted the temptation; if I ate anything now, it would make the night less than perfect. Everything had to be perfect.
I pulled the steaks off the stove. It didn't take long to get them right where I wanted them: a juicy red rare. I put them in the warming cabinet above the wood stove to let them rest and took the strawberries from the freezer, arranging them on the frosted cake before putting the whole works into the fridge. He would be here soon. It was nearly time.
I took a deep breath to calm my excitement and ran through the checklist in my head. Wood for the fireplace? Check. Generator filled with diesel? Check. Dinner and dessert prepared? Check. Back door locked and deadbolted? Check. I ran through more than a dozen preparations, most learned from the mistakes I'd made in the past. Everything was done. Everything was perfect.
I went back into the bedroom and opened the closet door, pulling the chain for the bare bulb. The closet smelled strongly of mothballs and neglect, and I winced. That was not perfect, but it would be ok; nobody was going to see the inside of my closet anyway. I walked to the back and put my hand on the tiny smooth spot on the wall, pressing firmly to open the secret room. It used to be my father's, but now it was mine. The thought sent a thrill through me, just like it did every year since his death.
Hanging inside were his old hooded robes, black and hemmed with gold, threadbare and brittle and untouched for a decade. I sneered at them as I walked past them; an expression of triumph and contempt, directed at everything he stood for and everything he was. I walked to the back of the small room where my own robe hung, red and hemmed with silver, fresh and clean and soft. I stripped off my clothes and donned the robe, sighing at the touch of the soft velvet on my bare curves. I'd sewn them myself, making them specifically for my body; to delicately drape my modest breasts and cascade just slightly over my wide hips, stopping at my upper thigh; they made me feel powerful and sexy, gave me the confidence to bear my lover's gaze without feeling small and unworthy.
I gathered up my tools from the secret room and returned to the bedroom, throwing the heavy braided rug aside to reveal the ritual circle. A shudder ran through my body; we always made love next to the circle, and its forms and symbols were inextricably connected in my mind with the deepest carnal pleasures. I felt the space between my legs respond to the twirling patterns and sighed deeply. I wanted to touch myself, to tease myself a little before he came to me, but again, I resisted the temptation. I considered him my true husband, and tonight my body was his and his alone.
I lit the candles, moving counterclockwise around the room, and began the chant to start the ritual. The first few years I'd had to read it from my father's books, but by now I had every syllable and intonation carefully memorized. A darkness settled over the bedroom, different from the simple absence of light caused by the sun beginning its journey to below the horizon. This darkness was a heavy darkness, like a warm blanket settling over my skin. Only the light of the candles held it back, and only in tiny flickering pools.
