Black Magic Woman
Joycey Baker was not black. She wasn’t in any way magical. She was a woman; she was sure of that in fact she checked herself daily to make sure all the bits she had qualified to make her a woman. She was also very optimistic.
She wasn’t a black magic woman but she lusted to be so.
She read all the journals and self-help books she could get her hands on to learn all she could about the black arts, black magic and how being a black woman was going to make it all the more possible.
Joycey was if anything delusional and that never stopped her believing that if she applied herself diligently to her pursuit of the black magic she was sure to come up a winner.
The first thing she discovered was that black magic was designed for evil purposes. This really did tickle her fancy as she was fed up with the family belief that she was basically God’s gift to goody two shoes.
Now Joycey knew that in the looks department she wasn’t up there in terms of stunning looks. Her mother forever sympathetic had set her mind at rest from an early age by saying it was unfortunate for Joycey that the day good looks were handed out Joycey was home sick.
But she knew that if she operated her fledgling magical skills at night then she could circumvent the black woman bit of the equation. In fact, the only way she would ever be able to manage at night even was wearing full length black cloths and her normally red hair dyed a black as black.
What she really wanted was to lure a man into her ravenous clutches. She had studied satisfying a man 101, a correspondence course which served to fill her with lustful thoughts and a desire to capture a man, any man and see if the position on page 223 really would work the very machinations of his soul into putty in her hands. As I stated earlier Joycey was an optimist.
At the weekly Black Arts gathering at the Shamrock Arms Hotel Joycey spied Peter Russell across the room. Joycey had watched Peter over the previous weeks and saw a man as naïve as her, if not more so. An ideal target.
Tonight she had come dressed to kill. She’d been out and acquired the outfit, short to show off her pudgy legs, a neckline that left little if anything to the imagination and a push up bra that was obviously working overtime with as the pundits might say, limited resources.
Dressing appropriately was important for Joycey, if the magic spell failed maybe her heavingly overburdened bosom might be the answer.
Peter came as he always did in her shorts and long socks and maroon polo shirt. Joycey sidled up to him, standing inches from him, her bosom in his direct eye line, her eyes focused on his, in her head the incantation working overtime.
To say Peter was taken aback is to put it mildly. He did a double take, his eyes honed in on Joycey’s never noticed before busty substances and as Joycey spoke the mesmerized Peter nodded in agreement that they retire to her place as she had just installed a new sound system and had Santana at the ready to get their evening off to a flying start.
She slipped a drop of her Black Magic Woman potion into his cup of herb tea and knew it was just a matter of time before Peter became the sex toy she desired he be.
With Santana belting out their greatest hit, Joycey led the drooling Peter into her bedroom, black magic woman was playing both in her lounge room and in real life in her bedroom. Peter never really knew what hit him. Joycey knew, and played it again and again.