THE DEMON'S BARGAIN

CHAPTER 5: SPELL OF DESIRES

DARLA’S POV

I wait for the absurdity of the thought to hit, maybe even a slight laugh to remind me that I’m indulging in an illusion far more than I should. But it never comes.

All I feel is the steady thrumming of my heart, a strange resolution sinking deeper into my bones.

It wouldn’t be anything serious, of course—just a little something to make him suffer. A bruise to his ego, perhaps. Make him feel as small as he’s made me.

I doubt it would work, yet the thought lingers in my mind, taking form, fueled by alcohol and slow-burning rage.

If he was right about one thing, it’s that there’s nothing I could do to actually dent him. Smash his TV? He could easily get ten more.

But what if I could take it up with a higher power? A darker, more vengeful power? One that would make Charles Carmichael loathe the day he ever met me.

My gaze lands on a page titled "The Spell of Desires."

I flip the page, skimming through the vague details and promises of manifesting your deepest cravings into reality. The wording is shabby at best, but the process is clear.

You just have to ask for it.

My thoughts drift back to Charles and the brunette he’s been screwing behind my back. Probably even f*****g right now.

My chest tightens.

The disgust, the humiliation—it burns in my stomach like fire.

I trusted him, bent my life around him, and this is what I get? A husband who cheats with a brunette after he made me bleach my hair because blonde suits us better?

I take another swig of alcohol, the warmth dulling the edges of my anger, but only just.

I should hex him.

The more I think about it, the more the alcohol pushes my resolve.

I flip through the pages, heart pounding in my chest as the orchestra music swells around me, the haunting notes of Clair de Lune spinning in the air like ghosts.

‘Bringeth thy deepest wants to life, but beware, for desire manifests as the dark mirror of thy heart.’

What I desire is for Charles to rot.

I found the instructions to draw a pentagram on the floor—easy enough. Grabbing the chalk, I stagger around, tracing the symbol as carefully as my blurred vision allows.

The air feels stiffer now, as if the room is tightening around me.

I arrange the black, red, and purple candles around the pentagram, lighting them with a determination my mother would mock.

The ritual calls for no artificial light, so I turn off the lamp. The moment the room plunges into darkness, save for the dancing flames, a chill slithers up my spine.

The orchestra’s melancholic notes seem to slow, bending through the thick air. I try to shake it off as I place the final candle in the center of the pentagram, my hands trembling.

Stop it, Darla, you’re just drunk.

However, the room has grown colder, goosebumps pricking my skin. My heart pounds louder, faster, as I glance at the tightly shut window, wondering where the draft is coming from.

I push down the fear, focusing on the final step of the spell.

I flip to the last page, and there, at the bottom of the instructions, a name appears: Rael.

The words are written in old English, scrambled and faded:

“Ye must call upon him wit’ pleasure, for he be one wit' Desires, an’ he cometh only at thy moment o' most unrighteous want.”

Pleasure?

I frown, my mind still foggy. I don’t get it—until I flip the page and see the illustration.

A woman sprawled out, fingers between her thighs, her face twisted in a mix of pleasure and agony.

Below it reads:

“Thou must moan his name at the height o' thy indulgence, an' he will come forth to grant ye thy heart’s true desire.”

My eyes widen, and heat rises to my cheeks. What the f**k? This is ridiculous. Who in their right mind would do something like this?

I want to laugh, to brush it off as nothing but a drunken whim, but…my heart races, and I gaze back at the illustration of the woman, fingers buried deep—eyes rolled back… in pleasure.

“...must moan his name...”

I shiver.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I shouldn’t even be considering it.

And yet… my thoughts circle back to Charles, his smug face, his stupid smirk, the nonchalance, the way he called me powerless.

Why the f**k not?

I set the book down and step into the center of the pentagram, my body trembling slightly. The air thickens, my heart pounds violently, and I struggle to breathe as I stare at the flickering candles.

“Rael,” I whisper, hesitating.

Nothing.

I lower myself to the floor, just like I’d seen in the illustration, hesitating only briefly before my hands move—slowly, tentatively.

The room feels too quiet, too cold. Too still.

I can hear my heavy breathing, my heart pounding wildly, my skin hypersensitive to every movement, every gust of air.

The alcohol is making me reckless. That’s it.

But what if this actually works? What if it’s real? What if Rael—whoever that is—is watching?

A dark thrill shoots through me.

No, it slips right between my thighs—an obscene desire, a sick spark ignited by the thought of possibly being watched right now.

I close my eyes, letting the darkness swallow me, reaching into the void that holds my deepest fantasies—the dirty ones, the ones I’d never shared with Charles.

Not that he had ever asked. He only cared about his pleasures: what he needed, a quick blowjob, a new position, mirrors so he could watch himself while he f****d.

I used to pretend it was enough, to moan and arch my back for his ego, but deep down, I’d imagined more. Rougher. Bigger.

I’d thought about what it would be like to be pinned against the wall by one of his friends—those faceless men with their broad shoulders and greedy eyes.

In those fantasies, they’d be ruthless, obsessed, taking everything from me with harsh, unforgiving thrusts.

My fingers trail down my body, sliding between my slightly parted thighs. They linger just above my panties, teasing myself as my hips roll, a small moan slipping out.

A raw, wild need consumes me—burning through my body with heat, an unexplainable desire, a strange, dark yearning for something I can’t name.

It spreads through my mind like a toxin, no doubt soaking my panties and leaving me even hungrier. I press my palm harder against the heat, grinding down with a filthy urgency.

And, as always, my mind drifts to the darkest corner of my fantasies—Charles walking in, finding me with one of his sleazy friends. It’s sick, but some part of me must have always hated him enough to want this.

The thought of making him watch as I’m get f****d by another man—perhaps even a stranger who’d use me the way Charles never could, the way I desperately need—drives my movements.

I picture Charles tied to a chair, forced to witness as I’m pinned down, taken hard and fast, helpless, horrified, as his pretty, naive trophy wife is f****d right before his eyes.

The thought sends a delicious jolt through me, and my fingers finally slip beneath the fabric of my panties, finding my slick, dripping core.

I gasp, pleasure blending wickedly with the twisted satisfaction of punishing Charles in my mind.

My fingers circle my clit roughly, heat spreading as I press deep, rubbing with raw desperation. The motion is harsh, and I’m not gentle—I don’t want gentle.

I want brutal.

Primal.

I want someone to f**k me against the wall, to push my legs apart and take me until I’m crying from the edge of pleasure and pain.

I roll my hips into my hand, grinding, arching, my breath coming out in ragged pants as I wonder… what if he really walked in right now?

Would he be disgusted? Terrified? Would he try to stop me, or would he sit there and watch as I f****d myself into a frenzy on the cold, hard floor of our bedroom?

Oh, it would be quite the delight to force him to his knees and grind my p***y into his face, hard enough to suffocate him⸺maybe even kill.

A loud, wanton whimper slips out, unlike anything I’ve ever been before, as I sink two fingers deep—deeper—pumping faster.

I’m so wet my thighs are slick, the obscene squelching sound cutting through the small silence Mozart’s orchestra leaves behind. I arch my back, thighs trembling as I spread them wider, surrendering to the sinful images.

God, I need this. I need to be f****d so badly that it hurts.

I haven’t had s*x in months, and the best I’ve had is my overused vibrator, buzzing away in the dark while I force the fantasies in my mind.

But this—this is different.

There is just something about the way my skin prickles with awareness as I chase release within a pentagram, with an occult book carelessly tossed aside.

It’s wrong.

It’s dirty and forbidden.

And yet… it spurs me on.

My fingers plunge deeper, rougher, as I bite down on my lip to stifle a scream. I can almost feel a stranger’s hands around my throat, tightening just enough, his growl hot in my ear, whispering every filthy word I can imagine.

He promises to f**k me like Charles never did—with no mercy, with no shred of love or tenderness. I imagine this stranger is the one whose name I'm supposed to moan.

“Rael,” I gasp, almost convulsing with need.

I bite down on my lip, my free hand moving to my breast, pinching the n****e hard. It’s painful, yet unexpectedly sweet to my senses.

My thighs quiver as the orgasm crescendos alongside the orchestra, each note heightening, amplifying the mind-shattering intensity. I scream his name again, louder this time.

“Rael, please—f**k me!”

I come violently, muscles clenching, my fingers slick with my own release. At that moment, the candles flicker wildly, as if a sudden gust ripped through the room.

My breath comes in ragged gasps, my body collapsing downward, limp and spent.

I take deep breaths, willing my relentless heart to steady, savoring in the sweet nothingness—the blissful moment when reality starts to piece itself back together.

And gradually, I remember why I’m doing this—to have my desires fulfilled.

Maybe it’s through a message from this Rael person, or perhaps three wishes granted like in Aladdin. Forgive me for not knowing the technicalities of casting a spell. I’m an amateur, after all.

My gaze shifts to the flames, still raging wildly, and I squeeze my eyes shut, dreading what might happen next.

And yet... nothing.

Nothing.

I exhale shakily, laughing at myself, at the foolishness of it all. I just had an orgasm, screaming a man’s name I don’t even know. I almost roll over, laughing—

Then there’s a thud.

The breath in my throat stalls.

Cold sweat prickles my skin as my eyes snap open, darting frantically around the room. Another thud—louder this time—like something, or someone, moving closer.

My pulse thunders in my ears.

No, no, no—it’s just your imagination.

The flickering candlelight dances across the walls, casting long, twisted shadows that seem to creep toward me.

Nothing is here.

But I feel it—the presence, thick and oppressive, hovering, watching.

Something has come.

My voice catches in my throat as I try to move, to stand, but my body feels like lead—paralyzed by the sheer terror clawing at my chest.

Then, from the shadows, a voice—smooth, dark—whispers:

“You called.”

Those two words are followed by tendrils of darkness infiltrating the room—dense and suffocating, like a vice around my airways, squeezing until there’s no oxygen left, only the acrid, burning taste of sulfur.

Perhaps on another day, this might have mattered. But not today—not with the thing standing before me, unmoving, cloaked in creeping shadows that seem to be an extension of itself.

He’s taller than any man I’ve ever met, towering over my small form like a living nightmare.

The flickering candlelight teases over his muscular frame—broad shoulders, taut muscles carved straight from sin, stretching down to a tight, tapered torso.

Strange, dark runes cover his defined arms and chest, faintly glowing and pulsing unnaturally. Every inch of his skin hums with an electrifying power—a force that grips my heart in a vice.

White hair, ghostly and wild, frames a face so devastatingly attractive it’s almost unreal—sharp, chiseled, and dangerously irresistible.

And his eyes…

They freeze the blood in my veins—cruel, cutting, silver, and inhuman. They simmer like a darkness waiting to devour—glowing with embers of pure chaos and corruption.

But the strangest thing isn’t the runes or the eyes—it’s the dense smoke snaking around him like a serpent poised to strike, gradually shaping into something unbelievable… a tail?

Wait, what?

It flicks through the haze, coiling lazily in the air just as faint, dark horns push through his scalp.

Oh, f*****g hell.

That haunting silver gaze keeps me frozen on the ground—my thighs still spread, slick and glistening in the dim candlelight. A drop of sweat rolls down my chest like the sharp graze of a claw.

Yet I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

It’s all so still—the flames, the spinning record, and the once-roaring wind. Almost like the universe is holding its breath—waiting, watching.

Then he moves.

“Darla…”

One step forward, one word drawled in a whisper, and the flames roar violently, blazing so high that whatever had frozen my bones is torn away by the raw, guttural scream that rips from my throat.

I snap out of it just as his shadows shoot forward like dark tentacles, reaching to grab me. I force myself off the ground, bolting for the door.

I twist the knob aggressively, banging on it with heart-pounding urgency, yet it won’t budge.

Of course, it’s locked—even though I never locked it.

I’m trapped… with him.

My pulse races. I spin on my heels, eyes locking on the bathroom, and I dash for it, taking whatever wild chance that door might still be open.

It is.

I bang the door shut the moment I’m inside, reinforcing the locks and pressing my back hard against it. My breathing is ragged, desperate for air, but all I get is the burning bite of sulfur.

What is that thing? What the f**k did I call forward? A beast? The devil? He has a tail! Horns! What the hell is happening?

Oh, s**t—Mother was wrong. So, so wrong.

Fearful tears blur my vision, streaming down my face, mixing with the sweat coating every inch of me.

My fingers tremble, and my heart pounds, desperate to burst from my chest.

I’m so f****d.

What should I do?

I shut my eyes. M-maybe it’s the alcohol.

The barrels must’ve been spiked with something stronger, because there’s no way a six-foot-something ancient thing is standing in my matrimonial bedroom.

Please.

Please, let this be a bad dream.

When I open my eyes again, there’s silence.

Pin-drop silence.

I hear my sharp intake of breath, the erratic pounding of my heart, and the soft steps I take as I press my ear cautiously against the door.

Still… silence.

Is it gone? Had it been the alcohol?

I press harder against the door, listening, hoping, praying that this is the end—that I’m not about to end up as a dead housewife in a horror story.

But then—

“Boo.” Hot breath teases my neck.

My heart drops.

He’s behind me.

Rael.

I whip around, a scream lodged in my throat, but my lips are too heavy, too paralyzed, to release it. I’m standing there, trembling, face to face with him.

My eyes bleed tears as I stare into that searing silver gaze.

Idle amusement burns in them, a wicked curve on his lips as he whispers, “You called.”

My knees buckle, and just like that, the world goes black.