Mamzel Bonou has a strange look in her eyes as she beckons me to approach the figure. He is dark, and the gloom of the candle-lit room makes his ebony skin glisten like oil rippling across water. He is naked, just as I am, but his eyes are closed, the square jaw relaxed as if he is asleep. Still, he stands upright unassisted, his cock jutting hard and needy into the air. A string of beads hangs around his neck, tiny red droplets of burnt clay in strange and eldritch shapes. His wrists and ankles are similarly adorned, and a band of feathers and tiny bones, like those from a mouse or a rat, decorates the base of his shaft and the plump, downy balls that nestle underneath. As he stands there, immobile, he reminds me of a sculpture, the perfect man wrought in dark wood and polished rock.

"Go to him," Mamzel Bonou urges, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "Go to him and join with him, now that he is suggestible to your body. Let his spirit know what he will yearn for from now on, and he will never stray from your side. Go on. Before the blood dries."

The blood, the sanguine essence of a rooster plucked from her own garden, has been smeared in ritualistic fashion across his brow, his chest and onto his cock and backside, and it shines black in the dim glow of two dozen candles. My own body is similarly adorned, with streaks across my throat, my nipples and my belly. The Mamzel even insisted on pushing two stained fingers between my legs, painting my naked lips with the still-warm blood. She even bent me over, her knotted hands roughly pushing me down by the next to let her swirl a slick of red across my pucker and over my soft, toned cheeks. But I gladly endured it, knowing that what Mamzel Bonou does produces results. She is, as my friend put it, the real deal. So I endure her humiliating stares, her muttering, her clear disdain for my blonde hair and pale skin. Because the prize at the end of it all will be so infinitely worth it.

"Go," she repeats when I hesitate, and slowly I move over to the man, watching his chiseled chest rise and fall in a slow, calm rhythm. I reach out and touch his arm, then his stomach, and when he remains inert, I touch the warm, throbbing shaft jutting out at me. I caress it, feeling the slick, slightly sticky sensation of the blood, and the veins tracing impossible figures beneath the skin. This is it. The final piece of the puzzle that will give me what I've always wanted. A lover, perfectly sculpted and infinitely loyal; a partner who will not lie or cheat or leave me for someone else. The perfect man.

Stepping up, I try to ignore the old woman staring at me with her black eyes. The angle is awkward, but I manage to lift up my leg enough to guide the tip of him to my lips, the blood helping to lubricate that which my nervousness has left dry. One hand reaches up to support myself against his shoulder, and then I drive myself onto him, his thick shaft spreading me open with a sensation of gratifying fullness that makes me moan involuntarily. I let my weight carry me halfway down his cock, and gasp, trying to adjust to his size within me. Throughout it all, he never stirs.

"Good," murmurs the Mamzel as I slip a little further down his hardness, my slit increasingly slick and hot around him. "Now the other one. Quickly, now. There will be time for all that, later."

Biting my lower lip, I look over at her, a bony specter at the corner of the ring of candles, her dark skin reflecting the flickering lights below her. I knew that this would be a strange ritual, but I had not been prepared for all this. But despite my wordless protest, Mamzel Bonou stares at me, unflinching and uncompromising in her task. Slowly, I pull myself off of my lover and turn around, trying not to look straight at the old woman as I line up my hindmost hole. I've only done anal a few times, and never with much success, but I am worried that a failure to follow the Mamzel's directions will result in the failure of this whole thing. Cautiously, still halfway expecting him to wake up at any second, I wet two fingers with spit and rub them against my tight hole, prodding and pushing them inside experimentally . To my relief, it does not hurt very much at all.

"No spit," barks the old crone from the corner, her mouth a vertical slit of disapproval. "You'll ruin the effect of the blood. Just do it, before it's all ruined."

Suddenly scared, I reach back and take hold of my lover, his shaft still damp from my juices and the ritual blood. He had seemed large before, but now it is as if he swells to impossible proportions between my fingers; I grit my teeth, close my eyes and line him up, and then I push my hips backwards, slowly grinding myself onto him. It takes a moment, two, three-- and then he pops in, the swell of his head stretching me wide. I gasp, my eyes flying open, a hot pain radiating out from my pucker and into my legs, my stomach.

"More," I hear her say, the crackle of her voice like the kindling of old leather in a bonfire, "let him taste a real measure of your body. How else will he know it until his dying day?"

I groan and try to move against him. At least the spit seems to help, as I am able to slide another inch inside without much effort, and then another. As soon as the initial pain of entry has subsided, it almost feels good, and a soft, mewling moan slips from my lips like a viscous liquid, slow and thick with lust. Gradually, I begin to bump myself against him, slipping deeper onto his cock, but then the Mamzel's voice rips me out of my lustful reverie.

"Enough," she cracks, and I feel myself blush at the realization of how much I had given myself over to the sensation. I pull away, and feel the pain-pleasure pop of his cock as the head breaks free from my tight muscle.

"It is complete. Two bodies joined as one, as you wanted." She grimaces and moves over to the immobile man, ushering me away from him as if I was cattle. Offended and ashamed of myself, but at the same time lit by a strange, lustful flame, I watch as she tends to his body, brushing her arthritic fingers over his body in strange patterns. I can't decide whether she looks like a sculptor admiring her latest work, or a butcher inspecting the latest shipment of meat. Both, perhaps. Neither.

I feel dizzy and overwhelmed, and the longer I stand next to her, watching her work, the more aware I become of my own nudity. Mamzel Bonou barely dignifies me with a glance as I move to sit on a chair, but she does mutter something under her breath, undoubtedly something toxic and mean. I don't care. It's done, she said. I have what I came for.

"Go home," the Mamzel rasps, her fingers now smearing the blood patterns into indistinguishable blots across the man's body. "Go home and wait. He will come when he wakes, tonight or tomorrow. He knows you now, knows where you go. He will find you."

I nod, hesitantly. After a second, I muster up the courage to speak. "And he will be-- what you promised?"

The old woman nods. "Go."

"He will be loyal?" I know I sound stupid, but I have to know. "What if-- what if it didn't take? What if he changes back?"

Mamzel Bonou fixes me a caustic glare, her fingers now rubbing the crimson mess against his stomach. "He won't."

"But--"

"He won't." Her words could cut glass. I swallow nervously.

"Go home," she repeats, turning back to her handiwork. "Let me work in peace."

What can I do? I leave. With my sporty outfit covering the stains of blood, I hurry back to my apartment, a strange, warm thrill in the pit of my stomach. Outside, the post-dawn light is painting the world in colors of rose and gold, and the world is starting to wake up. The Mamzel insisted it had to be done by dawn. I had no quarrel with her assertion; she is, after all, the expert. The heat inside me seems to grow hotter as the day goes by, and by noon I find myself masturbating beneath the dining table, my lust too distracting to eat lunch. I moan and whimper as a wild, fiery orgasm wracks my body, the thought of my black stallion filling my whole world. Panting, gasping, I sit back up to finish my salad, knees weak and trembling, a goofy grin on my lips. Not long now. Not long at all.

And in the basement of Mamzel Bonou's shop, a young, ebon-skinned man stirs, his naked body still caressed by the touch of the priestess. She smiles, a wicked, humorless grimace, part triumphant, part vindictive. The spell has taken, oh yes. The man's spirit is his no longer, the body governed by a new force now. Oh, the pretty white girl will find her lover bending to her will-- at first. But little by little, the spell will reveal its true nature, and the spirit will take its true form within the body. A loa, riding the man to give the girl exactly what she wants, what she asked for: Submission. And to give Mamzel Bonou what she asks for: Revenge.

I'm looking for a special someone to play out this little voodoo-inspired fantasy with me. The conceit of the play is that a white girl has had a voodoo priestess 'bond' or brainwash a man into becoming a sex slave/permanent partner for her, but unbeknownst to the girl, the priestess has given the man's body to a Loa, a voodoo spirit that has no intentions of serving anyone, least of all a white girl.

Ideally, I'd like the man to start out initially subservient, doing and being everything the girl asks him to be. However, as the play goes on, he becomes more aggressive, more dominant and, perhaps, more perverted. Ultimately, I want to see the role reversal complete, with the 'sex slave' attaining complete control over her. I sort of hinted to it at the end, that the ritual might have been as much to bind her to him as the other way around. As such, whatever mind control he has over him will gradually reverse itself, until she serves him.

Sound interesting? Good! I want to find a partner who is open to long build-ups, multi-paragraph writing and expanding the world building together. If you think you can hack it, and you think the premise sounds interesting, hit me up! I'll try to respond to as many people as I can, but my apologies if I miss some of you.