The Curse of the Rampant Rabbit

Rosie had always been a sceptic. Witches, ghosts, sex magic: she saw it as candlelit woo-woo for people with too much time on their hands. Her work bestie Emma, however, was the total opposite: a Halloween-obsessed witch who swore every orgasm was a sacred ritual.

After returning from her annual Samhain pilgrimage to Salem, Emma invited Rosie over for their monthly girl’s night. She arrived grinning ear-to-ear, handing over a small wooden box engraved with strange curling sigils. Inside, nestled in crimson satin, was a rabbit vibrator, it had a soft purple silicone shaft with two delicate ears poised like they were waiting to pounce. “You bought me a vibrator in a wooden box?” she said puzzled. Emma winked. “It’s not just any box. It’s enchanted.” Rosie did the biggest eye roll and scoffed.

Emma hadn’t told Rosie how she’d found the box. She was wandering through her favourite Salem Halloween market, when she locked eyes with it tucked away in the back corner next to a mysterious woman. The woman was draped in black lace, her eyes the colour of candle smoke. “Like what you see? This is a sacred box, my dear” she’d purred, tracing the sigils with her dark, pointed nails. “Anything placed inside will be…blessed. Or cursed, depending on your appetite.”

That night, back in her hotel room, Emma set the wooden box on her nightstand. The carved sigils seemed to drink in the dim light from the lamps in her room, shadows curling in the grooves. She bit her lip, fingers tracing the lid as if she could feel its quiet hum in her bones.

She decided to place her glass dildo inside, almost like an offering. Her self-love sessions were rituals, after all. The toy was sleek and cool, crystal-clear with a spiral of red running through its core. She lit a single red candle next to her bed, the air growing warm and honey-thick with the scent of sandalwood. A playlist of soft, sexy music played low, and she whispered a few words she half-remembered from the witch at the market.

The moment the dildo rested inside the box, the sigils flared faintly, as though it came alive. The glass warmed under her fingertips in seconds. It felt like it had been waiting for her all along.

Emma lay back, the glass toy sliding inside with ease, as if it knew the way. The first few thrusts were deep, but unhurried. She began to rock her hips slowly, until she felt it. That subtle, otherworldly shift in rhythm. The toy began to move with her, but not because of her, but as though invisible hands were holding it, tilting it, dragging it against every spot that made her breath hitch.

Her moans turned urgent, one hand clutching the sheets, the other tangled in her hair. Every time she thought she was about to climax, the toy slowed just enough to hold her there, trembling. When the release finally came, it wasn’t soft. It ripped through her entire being in a wave that left her back arched, her vision spotted with white dots and loud static ringing in her ears.

But the glass didn’t stop. The pace grew almost cruel, pushing her through another orgasm, then another, until she was gasping, her thighs slick and shaking, tears catching in her lashes. It was hours later before she could think straight again. Even then, the memory of the box hummed in her head like a secret she couldn’t put down.

A few days later after she’d returned home to England, Rosie text her about being “bored in bed lately,” Emma knew exactly what to do. She bought her a brand-new rampant rabbit, placed it into the box and grinned as she handed it over on girls’ night.

The next day, Emma arrived at work with coffee and a grin. “So?” she asked, clearly smug. Rosie handed her the box back like it was a ticking time bomb. “I need a bath. And an exorcist. And possibly therapy.”

In the days that followed, Rosie couldn’t escape it. The hum of the rabbit seemed to echo in her mind at the quietest moments: on her morning commute, in the shower, even in the middle of work meetings. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the relentless pulse of the ears, the way it had pushed her body beyond her own limits, coaxing out pleasure until it bordered on madness. She told herself she wouldn’t touch it again…yet every night her hand drifted toward the box. This was a spell. A possession. She became converted, a devout believer in sex magic. She was powerless to the curse of the rampant rabbit.