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Our potent little jar of moon-kissed herbs and dewdrop essence sat between us on the worn oak table. The “magic salve,” as we called it, was a concoction born of generations of hedgewitch wisdom, designed not just to heal the skin, but to awaken the spirit. Beside it, our broomsticks lay ready. Not the bristly kind for sweeping the hearth, mind you, but slender, polished hazel branches, each one unique, chosen and carefully prepared for this very purpose.
With a shared, knowing smile, Kayla and I began the ritual. Dipping the tips of our broomsticks into the shimmering, emerald green salve, we coated them generously. The scent was earthy patchouli, sweet jasmine, and something wilder, like fresh rain on ancient moss. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace, we inserted our broomsticks into our dripping wet pussies, pulling and pushing them in and out of our fuck holes as we moaned with pleasure, ensuring all of the salve
