The Witch's Book of Love

The Witch's Book of Love and Desire (Part 1)

I opened my eyes to find huge, heavy curtains, intricate and dim lighting, and clothes scattered all over the floor, filling the seemingly glamorous room with an atmosphere of debauchery.

A crimson silk sheet covered the enormous bed, like a battlefield stained with blood. A woman with long, flowing hair, wrapped in the silk quilt, clung to the sleeping man, like prey captured in battle.

Red as fire, white as snow, black as night—the colors of red, white, and black were as wild as the dazzling sun, yet as melancholic as the radiant sunset.

I gently rolled off the bed, took a cigarette from the man's pocket, and lit it—I don't like cigarettes, but I couldn't resist the warmth emanating from the swirling smoke, like a lightly sketched landscape painting, yet imbued with the scent of blooming and fading flowers… Awakening from my drunken stupor, I saw the waning moon and the gentle breeze. I opened the curtains; indeed, the moon was a crescent hook.

In the city's night, loneliness is always an unparalleled aphrodisiac, deeply instilling passion; while alcohol is a natural, hidden catalyst, expanding desire; the cold of a dark and windy night thus becomes the best barrier and excuse, allowing two people who had said goodbye but could no longer be so open to each other to finally face each other naked.

The man on the bed peacefully snored softly. Hours ago, we were here, on this big bed, fiercely biting and rolling around, like animals filled with hatred, determined to fight to the death... I seemed to see again the man in the mirror, staring at his own reflection with fanatical narcissism, like a brilliant and arrogant captain, maneuvering the woman beneath him into the heart of the storm, letting her rise and fall with the waves, tossed about in the raging torrents, screaming and trembling in the anticipation and fear of drowning in climax, a triumphant smile on his face... My long hair spilled onto the bed, my long fingernails digging deeply into his back. He pinned me down like a demon, pressing me deeply onto the bed, biting my neck. Blood and savagery, hunger and conquest, sorrow and pleasure intertwined. I seemed to see again that man, excited as lightning, thrusting like thunder, planting a seed of pleasure within me. The deep, moist tenderness within the flower's heart, with each thrust, gradually sprouted and blossomed. I anticipated, I begged, like a ravenous, insatiable serpent, coiling, slithering, yearning for the stars. The spark ignited a prairie fire… I spread my legs wide, like a split, and he moved gently, like a breeze rippling across water… As the speed increased, I gradually melted like snow onto the warm bed, steam rising, mingled with soul-stirring moans, a naked declaration of the most primal revelation. From moans to cries, from pleas to sobs, he controlled the rhythm, making the sweeping melody even more intricate, the impact of desire even more hysterical.

He nailed me to the bed like a cross, in the flames of desire, in the storm of pleasure, my moans could barely continue, my breath almost stopped.

He thrust deeper and deeper, faster and faster, until all consciousness faded, his soul seemingly lost in the darkness, spiraling upwards rapidly along the mountain road, finally plunging into the abyss in a dazzling display… The cigarette had burned out, and I quietly watched the man still asleep. This time, it was just an accident, for him, for me… I wanted to say sorry; after a moment of physical passion, there's always a moment of moral judgment on the soul. But, forget it, why bother?

When a lonely soul manifests, perhaps only through the most ancient form—letting the empty ghost leave us and attach itself to another body—can we find solace. The act of mating has been so since ancient times; everyone thinks they are the hunter, but who knows who will ultimately have the last laugh?

Quietly, I put on my clothes and gently opened the door. It was dark and windy outside, but I left… Tonight, the moon is like a hook.

The Witch's Book of Love and Desire (Part Two)

The man drew back the curtains and opened the French windows. Warm sunlight immediately flooded the room, spilling across the floor. The wind blew the woman's hair and skirt. She raised her arms like a dove about to take flight, her body, twisting and turning, was bathed in a dazzling halo of sunlight.

The man stared at her, his eyes filled with love and bewilderment. The woman in the daytime, with her innocent and naive eyes, was as fresh and gentle as an angel, making him restless. He suddenly rushed forward, pinning her from behind, grabbing her hands and pressing them against the French windows. "Rape! Don't move!" The sunlight outside was dazzling, the cool window against her chest stimulating her nerves, while the hot body behind her was slowly and lyrically rubbing against her, carrying an overwhelming sense of sadness and despair.

He untied her braids, and her long, flowing hair immediately released the fragrance of roses. He greedily buried his head in her hair, his hands roaming over her body, where his touch stripped away her defenses, revealing her smooth, jade-like skin in the cool air. The small rose on her chest, under his gentle caresses, began to proudly bloom.

She turned her head, her eyes, clouded with desire, gleaming. The man's wet kisses, like glistening morning dew, gently touched her eyelids, behind her ears, her earlobes, her swan-like neck, her smooth, rounded shoulders, lingering along… She let out a soft moan, like a cat's flattering whimper. Her pride swayed on the branch, her supple waist burning with consummate desire, love surging deep within her, proclaiming a thirst for possession and a yearning for destruction.

He held her tightly, as if she were the only remaining fruit of a sweltering summer. The war began. The restless volcano was filled with men who relentlessly stormed inside. It was a fight to the death; whether the eruption of lava or their own demise in the silence was irrelevant. Their resolve to perish alongside her fueled their ferocity, driving them forward with unwavering determination.

In the sea of desire, the woman's body was like a lifeline, drifting and swaying, soaked by the waves, before she surrendered herself completely to the mechanical motion. To the rhythm of the man's movements, the woman was like a seductive rope, soft and boneless, gently undulating and swaying.

Her intoxicating moans, like a painful yet joyful melody, lingered in her nose and mouth, suppressed yet unrestrained, long and melodious. Waves of pleasure washed over her, and the climax, like a blade of grass beneath a boulder, struggled to grow outwards.

His piston-like movements could not stop the volcanic eruption, nor crush the wild grass of climax. She struggled in the darkness, tumbling in the sea of desire. In the instant her soul left her body, a shooting star streaked across the sky…

The Witch's Book of Love and Desire (Part Three)

Her long black hair drew countless dividing lines on the woman's smooth, jade-like back. In the weak and decadent light of dusk, she lay on the bed, seemingly terminally ill and on her deathbed, listless like a lump of mud—fallen into the mud and crushed into dust, only emptiness remained. She secretly mocked herself.

In essence, all lovemaking is the same: lonely men and women sadly journeying on the path of desire. On that wild and dark land, men become beasts, and women are the hunted mother beasts; sometimes, the opposite.

All the madness and savagery are merely the fear of one's own vulnerability, just like the vows made during love between men and women. Vows of eternal love

are nothing more than foolish dreams uttered when people lose their reason, attempting to overcome the blindness of love and guide the future of two people. However, we cannot remain mad forever. When we wake and regain our senses, we realize we can never believe love can reach the future. Life is unpredictable, human nature fickle—this has always been true, and it is beyond human control. Perfection is temporary, while remaining incomplete in solitude is eternal and unique.

She sighed softly, her eyes closed, yet a helpless smile played on her lips. The man beside her gazed greedily at the woman, who, like a mimosa, remained docile and obedient as a cat in the cool air.

His hand, lingering on her smooth, elegant back, traced the contours of her breasts, surveying the territory he had just conquered. The sand dunes at his fingertips were rounded, the sand flowing like water. Lost in the desert, half-asleep, he was there, she so close, yet he had already begun to miss her.

Who said that the Sahara Desert didn't exist originally? I thought of you, and each grain of sand fell, and thus the Sahara came into being. Only the desert of longing is so desolate, so vast, that losing oneself within it offers no chance of survival.

He groped his way to the familiar grave mound, now a void leading to hell. The deep, dark flower stamens, the moist ocean amidst the lush grass, made him irresistibly drawn in. He had just been like a weary traveler, traversing countless mountains and rivers, greedily absorbing the sweetness and allure of the wellspring of life.

His tongue still overflowed with the stirrings of spring, the fragrance of a flower of desire bursting open, the surrender of a defeated warrior's fear and unease, the poison conjured by a demon for the lonely to console themselves with.

Spirit and flesh rubbed slowly together, the friction of body and soul lyrical, like the smile of a demon, filled with overflowing sorrow and decadent shamelessness. Yes, she realized with a start that the demon was within him, in the name of love, clinging to the darkness, ready to destroy them at any moment.

As darkness fell, the man fell into a deep sleep, his calm face expressionless. She couldn't discern whether his submission was born of helplessness or a wise choice. But regardless, she had to leave. Besides loneliness, the ghost that haunted the darkness was memory.

Sleeping in each other's arms always required courage, just as prey could never become accustomed to sleeping under a gun unless it was willing to be shattered. Primitive movement could transfer tangible loneliness, but sleep could not. And when memories, like the autumn wind, conquered the land, all was desolate.

The soft, warm fragrance beside him was gone

. The man sat on the bed, quietly smoking a cigarette. He had long been accustomed to the empty house, yet the emptiness left by her departure permeated the air, wave after wave, pushing him towards the endless shore of heartbreak.

He remembered her words: lovers and cigarettes are essentially the same, both bringing joy to ordinary life, but the end of joy is destruction. A lover destroys you through betrayal, while cigarettes, on the contrary, are deadly because of their unwavering loyalty.

Because of her, he fell in love with cigarettes. Between puffs of smoke, sorrow seemed to slowly dissipate, disappearing into emptiness, lingering and poignant, yet also tinged with a nostalgic sentiment. Humans are ultimately creatures who pursue pleasure; if one can retain the fleeting joy of the present, there's no need to dwell on the emptiness of the future. After all, it's not sex that leads to emptiness, but rather an insatiable hunger, a powerlessness in the face of love, and an endless revelry.

This is all we can do, this is all we can do, maintain the illusion of love.

Darkness was grasped in his baby-like hand, and his consciousness plunged into the abyss…

The Witch's Book of Love and Desire (Part Four)

In his dreams, she returned countless times and left countless times. These figures, coming and going, constantly shifted like falling petals, as if she appeared when light shone from a certain angle; but with a slight change in the light, she vaguely transformed into countless figures, dreamlike and illusory. But she left, turning back with a smile. Her melancholy gaze drifted into his eyes, then scattered, a sorrowful pain swirling within him… He gasped, trapped in a nightmare abyss, like a corpse returning to its mortal form in a tomb, wanting to break free, wanting to breathe, yet powerless. Darkness enveloped him, but could not confine the emptiness and memories. Night after night, like waves crashing against his heart, echoed in his mind.

Countless nights, he wandered through the city's towering bars, like a lion hunting prey in a dark forest. The musky scent of adrenaline mingled with alcohol in the air stirred desire, amplifying everyone's wildness.

He and she had been watching each other for far too long, their eyes meeting, time seemed to stand still. But they did not gaze into each other's eyes. They both knew that seeing and being seen were opposites, that eye contact meant submission and defeat. An invisible rope bound them together.

Under the lamplight, her gaze, arrogant yet bewildered like that of a female beast in heat, her smile both unrestrained and reserved, her white teeth and red lips radiant in the dim light like a rose in snow. Who seduced whom? Who conquered whom? He led her through forests and cities, back to their nest.

Her surging breasts swayed at her waist, the shadow between her legs faintly whispering like a babbling brook. Suddenly, his heart fluttered, like a bee drowning in a nectar-filled flower… Her heart was a vast, flat plain, yearning for unbridled conquest. He, this savage, approached her; she was the plains, rivers, mountains, and forests he had traversed. He pressed forward in her oceanic breath. He buried his nose in her thick grass, like a snake returning to the grass it had always longed for.

Spring tides surged in, and they swayed in the vibrant spring, far removed from the pain, emptiness, and separation from the world. Her body was warm and melancholic, every pose brimming with alluring beauty and power. She was like a plant enduring extreme drought in the desert, striving upwards, reaching for the sweet rain.

Those smiles and tremblings in the darkness—his heart and his memories trembled together… He finally understood why she never stayed at night, when he read Milan Kundera. Lovemaking is about sex, but sleeping is about love. Sleeping with one's woman signifies a return to motherhood and childhood, like a dream hatching under the protection of wings.

Are all men as strange creatures as he is? At first, he was captivated by the alluring charm of her dark, rose-like eyes. But why was he now infatuated with the gentle, shy beauty she exuded after she had shed her glamour? The first time he saw her leave at night, her back bathed in the cold moonlight, her slow walk and the long, lonely, unspoken shadow on the ground drew the sharpest dagger, piercing his heart with deadly precision… Was it love? That devil he had always been wary of had finally descended like a plague.

Love was truly something the soul and body could not bear, an incurable internal wound. When she burned beneath him, he could only reminisce about love through the oldest human activity, sorrow and loneliness endlessly surviving.

After each revelry, watching her leave, the door clicking shut, he felt as if he were locked in a tomb, swallowed by an overwhelming, cold emptiness. The receding footsteps pounded on his heart with each step.

If we cannot forget each other, if we do not wish to forget each other, then... so, he learned to fall asleep before she left, blurring the lines between truth and falsehood, letting himself be submerged in the boundless swamp of time, the world darkening in the afterglow of climax...

The Witch's Book of Love and Desire (V)

Night fell, the faint roar of a car engine echoed, clinging to the dim curtains.

She lay there, motionless, sad and empty, surrounded only by darkness, nowhere to escape.

Helplessness filled her body, reaching her soul, nothingness and ecstasy evaporating into her soul like alcohol. Her thoughts wandered in the evil darkness, from east to west of the city like a lonely sandstorm... She remembered that lightning-fast moment when they first met; yes, in the blink of an eye, she knew she had become his prey.

But what a fine hunter he was! She looked into his eyes, those gentle, spring-like eyes, harmlessly alluring, making her want to drown in them. His white teeth, under the lamplight, gleamed with a hypnotic, captivating light, the kind of alluring glow unique to carnivores… If he were a hunter, then those eyes, that smile, were his weapons for hunting his prey. He had honed them so perfectly and sharply; what reason did she have not to be captured?

Prey, perhaps, also possesses its own pride, the joy and pride of being admired and chosen by the hunter, like a thoroughbred horse meeting its discerning owner. She smiled, letting him lead her through the forest, through the city, back to his nest… The door closed behind them. He grabbed her, pressing her tightly against the wall, holding her in his arms, as if facing the dawn, full of tenderness, yet brimming with passion.

His body drew closer, his soft, even breath, moist and warm, teasing her long-dormant nerves, urging her budding love to bloom.

Contrary to expectations of a passionate, fiery encounter, he simply rested his forehead against hers, gently stroking her face. She languidly, playfully dodging his kisses, yet not entirely avoiding them, letting him occasionally catch the fleeting, mischievous smile playing on her lips, again and again.

He was like a master hunter, leisurely guiding his prey towards the trap at his own pace… His caresses were as lingering and poignant as a separation of life and death. Where his lips and hands touched, fragrance and life bloomed. Every bone in her body felt as if ants were crawling all over it.

She closed her eyes, stroking his hair as if touching a raging fire, her fingers running deep through his dark hair, tightly binding him to her chest.

The world began to spin; they fell together on the large bed, she pressing herself against him, almost burying herself in his chest.

He rolled over, pinning her down, and lifted her short skirt. Her body tensed, struggling fiercely, but only awakening the primal instincts hidden deep within them. He trembled violently, like spring thunder rousing a dormant wildfire. He lifted her up, his erection reaching the heavens. She swayed, struggling in the ocean, her wanton, agonizing moans merging exquisitely with her pure, innocent despair. No, she begged him to stop. No, ah, no, ah, ah, ah… Pearl-like tears reflected the brilliance of existence; these ceaseless cries were the soul-stirring groans of the suffering. A soul nakedly conveyed the most primal revelation of life: continue, continue, until the end and death.

He reigned supreme, controlling the pace of death. Her pleas turned into sobs, a wondrous, exhilarating variation. He paused from time to time, adjusting the rhythm, making the stirring melody even more poignant.

She broke free from the constraints of her body, overflowing with a roar, entering a liquid state. She groaned incoherently, like the sap of a crushed flower spilling out.

She tried to push him away, but this fragile and painful push only fueled his urge to rape her. Tears fell, dripping onto the bed, melting like snowflakes, like a child unable to withstand the crashing waves of desire.

Yes, yes, in the raging tide of desire, she was a fragile glass doll, and he wanted to shatter her. He wanted her to be strong, to close her eyes and enjoy it. If

you can't resist rape, then close your eyes and enjoy it—this was the will of the invader and the destroyer. The world of lust is a world ruled by tyrants, where the strong always reign supreme.

Her frantic and tormented soul found quiet rest through catharsis… She faintly heard the chirping of insects from some corner of the city, and dewdrops falling from the starry sky…

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