You laid in her living room in the unnatural-yet-natural quiet. Power outages in the city were always eerie – no air conditioning, no sounds of the refrigerator or the water heater. The only background noise was the soft hum of traffic and the chirping of the night insects.
Around you were a set of candles, five in total: one of each limb, and another for your head. You formed a human pentagram, tied up as you were. The rope was soft silk and extremely comfortable. Your girlfriend joked at being a witch, and you had always laughed, brushing it off.
Yet, here you were. The air smelled of your favorite incense, the kind she always burned when you were over.
“I swear I didn’t plan the blackout,” she chuckled softly as she secured your bonds.
“It makes it all the better; makes it really feel like we’re out in the woods.”
She smiled that sinister smile she always had when she was planning something. Magic wasn’t real, you reassured yourself. This was all just a kinky game!
She swore quietly under her breath as she struggled with the lighter, before slowly walking around you to light the candles.
After all, if she was really a witch, she’d just be able to create fire, right? As she circled you, each limb felt a little bit…more distant, with each candle lit. You opened your mouth to say something, but she shushed you with a single finger, leaning over your head.
“You’re going to be fine, my love. But I need to hear this from you. You want to be mine? Forever?”
“I need to hear you say it, dearest.”
She touched the flame to the final candlewick, and your awareness went blank.
Two weeks later, a witch walked into the parlor often attended by her kind. Another raised their hand in greeting.
“Oh, hello, Minerva! That’s an awfully nice doll you have today, whose is it?”
“All mine, Perci, so don’t get any ideas,” the witch coldly replied.
“Come on, dear doll, introduce yourself.”
The doll, dressed in only the cutest style that looked like it came from the last century, gave a small curtsy.
“This one is Harmony. It serves Miss Minerva, and only her. It is her beloved.”
If dolls could smile, one might swear it was.