Bitten: Dark Erotic Stories by Susie Bright Page B

“but you have a beauty of your own. You have the face of a poet.” Did she know about the secret notebook I kept under my mattress already half-filled with poems?
    A black dog the size of a collie—but without a collie’s pointed muzzle—stood behind her. I didn’t like dogs and drew back.
    “He’s not a dog,” Aunt Zippy said, “he’s a cat, Morris, my longtime companion. He will never harm you.” She led us down a long hallway, lined with photos of her posing with many different women. There was a picture of Aunt Zippy seated with Greta Garbo on a park bench. Another picture showed Aunt Zippy drinking cocktails with Mae West at a long bar. There was also a photo of Aunt Zippy shaking hands with Golda Meir.
    We entered a light, airy room with a high ceiling. Curtains of crystal beads hung in front of the high windows, sending shining reflections of sparkling light on the white walls. A modern white sofa stood in the center of the room, flanked by matching armchairs. The only testament to Aunt Zippy’s profession was a gleaming skull on top of the pine coffee table in front of the sofa. The contemporary decor surprised me.
    “Just because I’m a witch,” Aunt Zippy said, “is no reason for me to succumb to conventional thinking about my vocation. I’ve already lived a hundred and ten years. Maybe I’ll live a hundred more. Why should I spend my time in some dismal dump filled with bats? As they say, it isn’t over until the fat lady sings.”
    My mother giggled. “Right,” she said, smiling.
    Aunt Zippy snapped her fingers and three glasses filled with ruby liquid materialized on the coffee table. She picked up one of the glasses and handed it to me.
    “Enjoy this wine,” she said. “Your mother and I will be back shortly. My mother nodded at me encouragingly as she and Aunt Zippy each picked up a glass. They vanished through a door decorated with black roses that had appeared in a corner of the room.
    Morris didn’t follow them. He spread out under the coffee table and regarded me lugubriously. I had never tasted wine before. I took a sniff. It smelled like raspberries and Vicks cough syrup. When I tasted it I found it had a much stronger zing. I closed my eyes and listened to Morris purr softly below me. He seemed to be humming the first few bars of “Earth Angel,” my favorite song.
    Jerome Rothman and I danced to “Earth Angel” at the Sweet Sixteen party where we met. That was the first time I felt a boy’s bone grow hard and press against me through my clothes. He nuzzled my neck and stuck his tongue in my ear, another first. It was warm and wet, and I liked it.
    “Sorry to disturb you,” Aunt Zippy said. “We need you to do something—pull a hair out of Morris’s tail? It won’t hurt him; he’s used to it. We need a hair from a black cat’s tail. Only a virgin can pull the hair out and you are the only virgin here, so it’s up to you.”
    Already, I could refuse Aunt Zippy nothing. Morris swung his tail up on the couch next to me. I gingerly took a single long strand between my thumb and index finger and yanked. It slid out easily. I handed it to Aunt Zippy. “Thanks,” she said, and vanished again.
    When my aunt and my mother came back into the room, my mother was wearing a small purple velvet pouch on a ribbon around her neck. I watched her tuck it beneath the collar of her blue polka-dot dress. “Oh, I need to go to the toilet,” she said. She turned and went back behind the rose door.
    Aunt Zippy sat down beside me. She put her feet up on Morris as if he were a footstool. “First, I want to give you my phone number. Call me anytime,” she said. She handed me a white card with a number in gothic lettering. “Second, I want to tell you something. Your true love will have blue green eyes.” I was puzzled. Jerome Rothman’s eyes were a flat brown like a Hershey’s bar.
    “But, but—” I started to object.
    “No buts about it,” Aunt Zippy cut in. “Now, promise me