The Transformation Ritual
Suprise! — Your girl is still caught up in the heat waves of an epic creative dry spell. But when she saw that the Friday Flash prompt was “Makeup”, she felt some stirrings of smutty nostalgia and a different kind of heat…
And now that it’s Monday and being that this is pretty much as masturbatory as a story can get, I’m also sharing it with the Masturbation Monday crew to see how y’all like it.
Full disclosure: these aren’t new words, so you may have seen them before. (This is an excerpt from the short story “Hey, Babe.” originally published on Bellesa.) So thanks for F. Leonora and Kayla for their permissions to let me stroke them anew.
Anyways, these words have taken on new meaning in the time since I first penned them nearly two years ago. And lately, I’ve been in a place of revisiting my old pieces to 1) remind me that I am still a writer despite my ink well running perpetually dry as of late, 2) analyze my writing process and see how I can tweak it to be a better writer, and 3) see just how much I’ve evolved as both a writer and a human being in the time since I started this whole smutty wordsmithing business.
The Transformation Ritual
Vapors rose from her body as the sudsy water swirled down into the dark eye of the drain. She wrapped herself snugly in a large, plush, hotel-white towel, trapping the heat inside. She held a bottle of generic red wine, clenched by the neck in one hand, while she drained a fogged glass of the bloody liquid with the other.
Her transformation was already underway.
She deliberately left the lights off, opting for a line of red votive candles lit along the edge of the mirror instead. Her long, damp hair was pulled to one side, exposing the striking silhouette of her clavicle. She sat at her vanity where, like a surgeon’s tray of sharpened tools, her weapons were laid out before her.
Let the ritual begin.
As she walked through the steps to prepare herself for the night, every detail was met with painstaking care. She started with a solid foundation, then cut dark shadows into the high angles of her cheekbones, highlighting her ferocity. She pulled dark, smoky shrouds over her eyelids, and cleaved sharp swoops of liquid ink into the lash line, dragging her tigress eyes open wide. She crushed rusted iron into the apples of her cheeks and locked in all of her power with a loose, translucent powder. The heat of the blow-dryer took her long damp strands and turned them into luscious locks of vibrant ochre and blood. And finally, the cherry on top was a bold cherry red on the pout of her lips.
Every step of the ritual, another layer of her war paint: preparing for battle, painting on confidence, highlighting her inherent strength.
Having selected a curve-licking lacy bodysuit, she slid her garments into place with the utmost care, plumping her breasts up in the cups for cleavage that could shelve an entire collection of dropped jaws. She threaded her legs into thigh-high fishnet stockings, catching a glimpse of the little tattoo on her hip as she did so. Though she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet, she slipped her feet into her shiny black dagger heels.
With her metamorphosis complete, she pulled a sleek purple phallus from the side drawer. Pressing a tiny golden button at the butt, she moved the soft silicone wand to cast spells over her even softer flesh and swooned into the vibrations, releasing a soft purr of anticipation.
She melted back into her chair and admired every polished edge of the dark goddess who now sat before her in the flickering candle glow. The pronounced lines of her legs resulting from the stiletto-forced point of her toes. The artistic perfection of the warrior princess mask painted on her face. The fierce glow of her diabolical eyes. The flash of her claws, filed to a point and painted with the same sanguine scarlet of her lips, gripped gently around the throat of her little toy.
With her other hand, she took a preemptive victory sip of her wine and examined the rim of the glass to ensure everything was exactly where she wanted it to be, which it was. She was warming up for the fight, practicing battle cries in her head, preparing herself for the forthcoming carnage.
Then, she was alerted by a pinging sound from down the hall.
The cookies were ready.
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