The Petshani

I knelt reverently in front of the carved wooden box I’d pulled from the corner of my closet. A tinge of shame echoed in my heart as I realized how long it had been since I’d laid hands on the small chest. How long I’d been denying who, what, I truly am.

My fingertips trembled as they traveled gingerly over the carved symbols on the lid, and a shiver danced through my body. Quickly, before any doubts could seep into my heart, I lifted the lid of the box and reached for what I needed. Everything was just as I’d left it. I began to remove the items from the chest one by one. Soon I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bedroom floor, surrounded by 4 candles, -a silver one, a lavender one, a white one and a pale blue one. The colors of the Moon Deities.

Directly in front of me was the covered wooden box, now an altar, with a plain silver goblet filled with white wine, an ebony handled Silver bladed athame that had been handed down through my family, and a quartz crystal. Jasmine incense wafted through the room and I held a crystal in each hand to help me focus.

Ignoring the slight trembling in my stomach, I closed my eyes and concentrated. The moonstone pendant at my neck warmed and the power came easily. As if the time it had sat inside of me, unused, had only made it stronger, more eager to do my bidding. I knew this was an illusion though. Power weakens when ignored, it doesn’t rest and regenerate. As if to prove this fact, once I’d flicked my mind out to the candles surrounding me and lit them, the energy flowing through my veins weakened to a slow pulse, drained.

Without opening my eyes I reached for the crystal with my left hand. The quartz grew warm in my grasp and I felt the power of my ancestry surge through me. Renewing itself. Bracing myself, I summoned the image from my dreams to my minds eye.

He was tall, over six feet, and solid. Dark hair swept back from rough-hewn features and bared dark eyes and full lips to my view. The lift of his head told me of his pride, his arrogance. But it did little to detract from the magnificence of him. His nakedness hid nothing from my view and I felt my blood heat at the sight of his golden skin stretched taut over firm muscles. The glinting silver hoops that pierced his nipples shimmered in the air. There had to be some significance to them, but I didn’t know exactly what it was so I filed the fact away for later research.

I’d thought it was just my repressed libido manifesting him in my dreams. The fact that I awoke each morning for the last week from dreams of him, wet between the thighs, but sated and heavy as only a well fucked woman can be, should’ve warned me that there was more to him than being a simple dream lover. But it had taken him appearing to me, in front of my desk at work that afternoon, while I was wide-awake to make me accept that fact.

As I studied the image in my mind, preparing to call out to Blodwin, moon Goddess well versed in Lunar Mysteries and Dreams, a warm breeze drifted over me, and a sense of magic filled the room. I opened my eyes slowly only to have my breath catch in my throat. He was there. All six feet whatever of gleaming masculinity. In front of me. In my room.