Prepare the Receptacle

"First things first, we need a mirror, and a bit of privacy. Head to the ladies' room, I'll meet you there in a minute."

Lois nodded, and stood up from the table, scanned the room and located the darkened alcove with the telltale signs Messieurs and Madames.

She strode through the room, a woman with a secret. Her heart was beating, the booze burned in her stomach, and she felt the unaccustomed giddiness of a good buzz. The knob was old brass, set in a heavy wooden door, and it turned loose in her hand—a bit of luck, the ladies' room was unoccupied.

Lois quickly moved inside and quietly locked the door. The restroom was small, but not inelegant: white tile on the floor and lower walls gave way to dark oak paneling, a porcelain toilet and bidet to her right, and a full-length mirror and a sink to her left. No hand-dryer, only a table with a basket of carefully wrapped towels, and a trash can.

A little odd, she thought. You would sit on the toilet and watch yourself in the mirror. When she was a teenager, the bathroom at home had been set up much the same way. Sometimes she had liked that—pretended that there was another Lois, on the other side of the mirror, watching her as she watched herself.

A soft knock at the door interrupted Lois' ruminations. She unlocked it and opened it a crack—to see the pale goth Rat, being ridden by the ghost of Boston Brand. Lois opened the door and he slipped in, then locked it behind him. He looked around, eyeing the mirror particularly.

"Facing east," he said. "Perfect. The first part of the ritual requires us to prepare you as a receptacle for the energies you're going to collect. Like priming a battery."

"Will it hurt?" She said, feeling a flare of apprehension. A magic sex ritual. She was really doing this.

"No—this is the easiest part. First, take off your pants."

Lois unbuckled her heels, then pressed her thumbs into her hips, stretching the tight-fitting material out and pressing down. She had to shimmy a little to get it over the mound of her ass—and a quick glance at the mirror showed that at least a part of the Deadman was definitely alive and paying attention. Her smile was hidden in her long hair as she stepped out of the pants, glad she still had that effect on men—even if it was a ghost.

"Panties too," he said, voice thick. Lois didn't question him as she slid the black lace panties down her thighs. Normally she didn't wear anything this sexy—but it was club night, after all. Wouldn't do for her to be wearing her normal white cotton numbers, just in case...

"Face the mirror," he ordered. "And spread your legs a little."

She did...and saw herself, half-naked, this skeevy pale man in the corner with the haunted eyes. Lois could see the slim, muscular thighs, the little well-manicured tuft of black hair above her pussy...and the mirror-Lois looked back at her, the warm glow of the **** on her cheeks, already putting on bedroom eyes.

The Deadman stepped forward. He placed one hand between her legs...not touching her thighs, but just hovering below her exposed cleft...and she felt something hot and wet drip on his fingers.

"You're already wet. That's good. Lift up your shirt a little."

Lois tugged the white shit up to just below her breasts. Boston Brand brought wet fingers up, to just below her belly button. With swift, deft strokes, he painted a sign like a pentagram—only more complex, and at each of the seven points, he marked a little sign.

"Now, I'm going to tell you the words..." the ghost said. "...and I need you to look into the mirror, at the sigil I've drawn, as you say them. Touch yourself, if it feels right, but whatever you do, don't cum! Okay? Or we'll have to start again."

Lois nodded, and turned to face the mirror. Boston Brand stepped back, near the door, as far out of sight as possible—but of course he could see everything, in such close quarters.

“O friend and companion of night,"

Lois intoned, soft and low, and she reached a hand down to spread her labia.

"...thou who rejoicest in the baying of dogs and spilt blood..."

She ran a finger over her slit, feeling the wetness and the heat there...and wondered at the kind of blood that she rejoiced in. The blood of women? The moon blood? The sign of fertility, of possible life lost, the mark of womanhood.

"...who wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs..."

Lois could feel the heat building within her now, and the wet sigil which should already have dried on her belly looked more distinct now. She remembered what she had heard of corpse candles, of the massive erections of corpses she had seen in the morgue.

"...who longest for blood and bringest terror to mortals..."

Like that, Lois was close. She was one of those women that had rarely orgasmed, except by herself, and it took a bit of effort to get her off. It shocked her at how close she was, and remembered the ghost's words... Breathing heavily, she clamped down on the feeling, the heat building within her.

"Gorgo, Mormo, thousand-faced moon..."

The heat was excruciating now. Just the little effort to deny it had set her on edge, ready to spend at a moments notice, and the sigil was glowing, right there in the mirror, ruddy as if drawn in blood.

"...look favourably on our sacrifices!”

She whispered the words harsh and fast, one finger buried in her muff, and squeezing, really squeezing to hold off the eruption she could feel coming.