She was a redhead. Pale, with a dusting of light freckles over the top of her chest and, to match her Gaelic blood, vibrantly bright green eyes. Her eyes were narrowed to slits and her full lips moved with the rising and falling rhythms of Aramaic. In the points of the circled pentagram carved into the basalt floor of this room, stood long beeswax tapers. Wax dripped down their long, smooth sides and puddled around the base.
Melinda kept chanting. She was alone, though two silent, malevolent sentinels stood outside the room's only door. They could hear nothing of what happened inside, as a warm wind caught the flames of the candles and they began to twist counter-clockwise, melding together in a way that defied all terrestrial physics, blurring together into a glowing ring that grew in intensity until its light banished the darkness from every corner of the room. The basalt floor became warmer, and the candles melted to flow along the grooves cut deeply into the stone. The wax turned black, and the room grew pitch black. Goosebumps rose over Melinda's nude flesh, from the arch of her feet to her neck, and the book she had been reading from suddenly became too heavy to hold.
It fell to the floor without a sound, spine-first, and snapped shut. Then it disappeared, and the pentagram was suddenly glowing bright, suffusing the room with a deep red light and Melinda shook with excitement: She had done it. There was no mist, nothing so dramatic as a blurring between the points of the pentagram. Her pale nipples hardened and a ghostly touch, slightly warmer than her own skin, drifted over her shaven mound before traveling over her hip. She swore she could feel three distinct fingertips as the touch caressed her mons, then a fourth fingertip as it traveled over her hip. She felt warm breath cascading down over her neck and it was so warm that she felt it travel down the perfectly smooth, lean arch of her back to her well rounded, high, muscled rear. She tensed involuntarily, and murmured "Thank you," and she was proud, because she had done what she had been trying to since she first found herself in possession of that Aramaic tome. Then the touch left her.
She would have despaired, had he not appeared without warning before her. A lean, hard face with eyes of such a deep brown they were almost black, over a straight nose and between slightly pointed ears. Black hair, this also lightly covering thick pectoral muscles that joined with broadly muscled shoulders, and a thin trail of hair over an unnaturally flat stomach. He moved slightly, taking a step towards her, and she saw the muscle ripple and as her green eyes met his she felt herself stiffen unnaturally. He was a foot away now, arms relaxed by his sides, and she knew she had to break her gaze, look elsewheres, but she could not. Her head tipped back to keep staring at him, her hair cascaded back over her shoulders and hung just shy of her ass. The ass that had complimented her traditional Irish beauty and drawn so many to her, all to be rejected. For this. She wanted to look down, but until his eyes dropped to examine her body she could not - it was not that she wouldn't, it was not that she was so entranced by those dark eyes that she couldn't, it was that her neck refused to respond. Her eyes refused to move elsewheres. She was paralyzed.
Melinda was supple, lean, with full hips, small, pert breasts with pale dime-sized nipples. Her legs were cleanly lined, long, her stomach flat and toned with two small ridges of muscle. He bent slightly, examining the freckles brushed across the top of her chest, and she felt his breath again, moist and warm, drifting over her skin. She knew it then, knew that she had achieved her goal. She looked down over his body, the essence of masculinity, virility, without an ounce of fat marring his perfection. Between his legs hung a large, thick phallus, veined and perfect, flaccid but still firm, surrounded by slightly curled black hair, his testicles hanging low and large underneath. She felt that she was in control of herself again and reached to touch him.
Here, on this basalt floor, he was in his domain. He did not need an invitation from Melinda to move beyond this pentagram. She had carved one into the concrete of her basement floor at home, practiced until she had summoned increasingly powerful demons, banishing them all after proving to herself that she could do it. She had heard a rumor about this place, this building whose front housed the Slaughterhouse Club, where deep bass beats overflowed and red light pretended to aspire to the atmosphere of this room. Where feeble, prideful and unmindful humans played at this. And after interviewing the floor boss, she had been invited into the imposing marble corridor behind the club, had been allowed to wander its length until she came to this door, pushed it open, and saw what she wanted. This basalt floor, where the demons she would summon did not need her permission to leave the pentagram scribed deep into the floor. Melinda craved this. Needed there to be no restriction on the one she would summon next; Belial.
Before her hand could cross the few inches of space between them, his hands were on her hips. Firm, dangerously powerful. She delighted in this, smiled wolfishly. Belial smiled back thinly, and to her eyes this sight was perfect. Her eyes were wide now, bright green, reflecting the clean red light. She focused singlemindedly on one sentence, one sentence that could be translated into English only as
Make me yours
. He didn't need to speak.
