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Super-Natural Medicine
Author: Closet Fetishist

Written: March 30th, 2017

In the sprawling Blackwood Manor, adorned with only the finest arts and sculpture curated from around the British Empire, Lord Charles is bedridden, stricken with a terrible illness and feared to be very near death. His jet-black hair, ordinarily well coiffed, is scatted wildly from his head over the pillow; his follicles greased heavily from the repeated canola oil massages of his chambermaids.

At his behest, doctors from all over the country flood in throughout the day, sometimes two or three at a time, but even the so-called best and most expensive of them cannot break Charles’ blistering fever.

In the late evening, as the sun begins to fade to bright orange, Charles feels at his bitter end, “Please, leave me for now, everyone,” he speaks weakly.

His maidens sniffle and hold back tears for their terribly afflicted Lord as they quietly shuffle out of his bedchamber.

“Richard, please stay,” Charles calls out to him.

Richard waits until the last of the maidens leave the room before speaking, “Yes sir?”

“You’ve always been my most loyal and trusted friend, Richard. I have a task I require of you but you must keep it clandestine and do not inquire further once the information is relayed. Can you do that, my friend?”

“Of course sir, anything you require.”

“Good. There is a small parchment in my nightstand, would you please fetch it?”

Richard walks quickly over to the nightstand; he finds the weathered and crumbling piece of parchment with a faded address and the words Super-Natural Cures scrawled almost illegibly across it.

“You must go to that address personally and send for the occultist woman.”

“Sir, I...” Richard stammers.

“Please, Richard; there is little other hope for me now.”

Richard nods solemnly, “Yes sir; I will be back by the morrow eve.”

“Thank you my friend; allow her to come in through the passage so she isn’t seen by the other staff.”

“Yes sir,” Richard says as he purposefully walks out of the room.

Charles lies his head back onto the pillow, his breath heaving gently; he closes his eyes and tries to rest. His mind conjures up images in expectation of this witchly old hag, with pale gray, sagging skin and crooked teeth; an image remembered from childhood tales his mother would tell. The thoughts continue to swirl in his mind, benevolently suppressing the feverish nightmares, as Charles drifts off to sleep.


Charles slumbers through most of the day; chambermaids tiptoe in at the top of each hour to refresh the cool compress over his forehead, while their Lord rests arduously.

Upon waking, he spends several hours dazed by the marbling of his high ceiling; his mind stirs up images of the great battle scenes throughout history, Waterloo, Trafalgar, all playing out before him like a history book come alive. It mildly thrills him, momentarily easing the growing pain and weakness that near paralyzes his body; he softly closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep.


In the late evening, Charles’ eyes flutter open again and fall upon a gorgeous woman; her red hair glows like a bright fire in the candlelight. Through the window, moonbeams casts over her skin, giving it the appearance of pure white porcelain.

“Truly this must be a fever dream,” Charles says as he tries to sit up, but he collapses back onto his pillow; he coughs viciously, a smattering of blood sprinkles his palm.

“Your valet has relayed you are quite ill,” the woman says, unmoved.

Charles uses his forehead cloth to wipe the spots of blood from his hand, “More friend than valet but indeed; I have been stricken for nearly a fortnight and have run afoul of options. Though I must admit, I expected a far more ghastly wench to arrive, not a fine beauty such as yourself.”

“Stay your flattery, sir; it does not serve you,” she replies.

“Of course, sincerest apologies; the damp has my mind aflutter,” Charles stutters.

The occultist pulls out a nautilus cup, seemingly from the wide sleeve of her ox skin robes, “Drink this and immediately return to sleep.” She hands him the pearled shell cup; thick black syrup fills it about halfway to the top.

Charles lifts the cup to drink, but stops himself, “What about your fee, occultist?”

“I shall collect when you are cured; I trust the cost of your good health is no object?”

“Within reason, enchantress; good health is no solace to poverty.”

“Well spoken for a mere vassal but I have no interest in your shillings; so drink, sir. 
I shall take my leave whence I came and return on the morrow.”

Charles sips the foul brew and cringes, straining to swallow, “Thank you, occultist.”

The woman says nothing more as she disappears behind the bookcase, heading back down the secret passage to the courtyard.

Charles sighs deeply and dumps the viscous liquid down his throat; he winces from the bitter brew but forces himself to swallow it all. He lies his head back down onto the pillow, fighting occasional retches that seek to expunge the repellant concoction; he feels his eyelids grow heavy and finally drifts off to sleep.


A vivid memory strikes Charles as he slumbers, being on the grounds of the manor with Margaret, a dear friend of his sister. It’s a scene from at least fifteen years past, before Margret had married and left to live in British India; Charles is eighteen and just days away from leaving home for the prestigious London University.

“You know, Margret, I am surely to be the greatest rugby player that London has ever seen,” Charles boasts baselessly.

“You, Charles?” She laughs, “Why you’re barely athletic enough to swop their sweat, you’ll never be the greatest athlete at anything. I’m sure I could topple you easily, even in my dressing gown.”

Charles scoffs, “I would like to see that, a woman toppling a...”

Margret pushes him over quite easily, and in midsentence; Charles falls down onto his butt, his cream colored pants stained against the manicured grass. Margret laughs the same cruel chuckle he remembers, but Charles is in a stunned shock as the memory begins to differ from the reality. Whereas Margret was supposed to walk away laughing; in this dream, she approaches closer and closer to Charles’ fallen body.

Charles’ eyes go wide in excitement and fear as he watches Margret lift her long flowing skirt high, revealing her pristine white bloomers to Charles before they press down heavily over his face. He’s pinned down under her bottom, with the strangely intense aroma of body odor and sweat. It’s a smell so potent that Charles cannot possibly believe it be only a dream, so strong, so clear it is in his nostrils.

“What was that you were saying about a woman, Charles?” Margret taunts; she aggressively rubs her butt crack up and down over Charles’ features, inundating his every pore with the perspiration soaked into her undergarments and wiped over him with little regard.

Charles struggles weakly, his legs softly patter against the lawn but his face remains firmly planted under Margret’s butt. She stops momentarily, with a look of concentration on her face. BRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrraaauuuuupppppppp!

Charles panics as the rank fumes flow quickly to his nose, rushing in painfully and burning from the inside with such inhuman wretchedness. He writhes and squirms on the ground underneath this horribly odiferous bum, moaning out loudly.


Charles wakes up suddenly with a fright, the morning light shines brightly through his window. He rubs his sore head and weakly calls out, “Richard?” Charles nightshirt is soaked through with sweat.

Richard scurries from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into Charles’ bedchamber, “Yes my Lord; are you feeling any better today?” He says, just a hint out of breath.

“Only just, Richard; and now a throbbing head pain to cap it.”

“I shall have a cold compress prepared at once...”

“No, no, don’t bother, Richard; it’s a fruitless and uncomfortable endeavor.”

“Well, sir, the occultist has assured me she will return tonight.”

“Very good, perhaps there’s more she can do.”

“Anything more I can do, sir?”

“Not for now, friend; you’ve been most helpful. I shall submit to rest in wait for the occultist’s return.”

“Yes sir; I shall be outside if you require anything.”

Charles nods as he watches Richard leave the room, closing the double doors gently behind him. Charles lies back and stares blankly at the wall, recalling the dream; surely a hallucination but it carried all vividness and clarity of real life. Lost in thought and weakened by illness, Charles fades again; his eyelids flutter softly to sleep.


Charles wakes to a starry night sky at his window; he looks to the foot of his bed and the occultist woman stands there, just as the night before.

Charles speaks groggily, “Enchantress, it’s good to see you again; your potion has left me only marginally healed, and stricken with vivid delusions.”

“Your affliction, sir, is not a simple one to avail; try this brew tonight and sleep soundly, immediately,” she pulls another shell goblet from her sleeve and hands it over to Charles; inside is a coarsely ground concoction carrying with it an even more fetid odor than the last.

Charles looks up suspiciously, “Are you sure this will help me, occultist?”

“Do you question my expertise? Did you not call for my aid, sir?”

“Indeed I did,” Charles says, chastened; he holds his nose and tilts back his throat to forcibly ingest the loathsome liquid, swallowing it down with a shiver.

The woman slyly smirks, “I shall return again at this time morrow.”

“I do hope this improves my condition, occultist,” he says as if testing her reaction.

The occultist turns before he’s finished speaking and vanishes quickly into the darkness, down into the passageway.

A curious look remains on Charles face about the intentions of this sorceress, but he allays his concerns and lies his head down against his pillow once more; he quickly falls to sleep.


Another vision of the past visits Charles this night, a seemingly unremarkable event from his first year at university; his hubris towards his own athletic abilities had garnered him the scorn of a particularly mean calisthenics instructor, Mrs. Gullifer. After a particularly grueling workout with his classmates, Mrs. Gullifer noticed Charles’ poor form with his sit-ups and made him stay after class.

She towers over him, shadowing him from the harsh sunlight of the late afternoon, “So you expect to be a star rugby player and you can’t even give me ten sit-ups, 
Mr. Blackwood?” She barks like a military captain.

Charles strains to sit up again but his will is too exhausted from the grueling workout; he only makes it about halfway before falling back onto the hard packed dirt of the track field.

“Pathetic!” She yells down to him, practically spitting in his face.

But again, the dream begins to differ from the reality; Mrs. Gullifer was supposed to walk away in disgust, finally dismissing Charles from class but not this time. Mrs. Gullifer, instead, steps one leg over Charles’ head and begins to squat down and then sit on Charles’ face, caressing his features with the sickly smell of a long day outside. The intense moistness of her sweat rests on Charles’ face like an old damp cloth that he cannot muster any strength to move.

“Mr. Blackwood, your performance is atrocious and I really see no proper use for you on the rugby teams, except perhaps with your face as a seat,” she laughs.


“Mmm, inhale that, my little seat,” she sneers.

Charles is assaulted by such potent wind that it knocks all oxygen out of him and replaces it with the disgustingly fragrant backside of Mrs. Gullifer; it’s a sensation so real that it couldn’t possibly be just a dream.

“Perhaps this will clear your breathing passageways, Mr. Blackwood,” she jeers.


“Please stop this at once!” Charles cries out, tears run profusely from his eyes as the noxious odor abrasively burns every orifice of his head; he retches wildly.

“What’s the matter, Charles? Don’t like my fragrance?” Mrs. Gullifer chuckles, but it’s unlike her. She never once called Charles by his first name; suspicions arise further in Charles’ mind as Mrs. Gullifer pushes her butt down heavily over Charles’ protesting face.



Charles again wakes with a terrible fright, finding the strength to somewhat slightly rise from his bed and sit up. Richard is there, sleeping in a chair near the door; he startles awake when Charles comes in to consciousness.

“Sir, good morning; how are you feeling?” Richard asks sleepily and sore.

“Only somewhat better in illness, Richard, but I seem plagued by horrible hallucinations; I fear the occultist brew is the cause.”

“Perhaps a side effect, sir,” Richard rationalizes.

Charles thinks, “Perhaps. Are you quite positive the occultist does leave the manor each night?”

“Yes, sir; I’ve watched her leave twice now, by horse, very soon after her arrival.”

“Then perhaps it’s just a bout of paranoia.”

“Shall I inform her not to come this night, sir?”

“No, no, she may very well be helping this illness indeed. Let her come as normal.”

“Yes sir. Unless you require something further, I shall take my leave and report to Mrs. for daily duties.”

“No, that’ll be all, friend; thank you, Richard.”

“My pleasure sir.”

Richard exits and Charles lies his head back on the pillow in thought, staring at the marbled ceiling again; he wonders what could cause such vivid delusions. He wipes the sweat from above his lip with two fingers in concentration; as he does, he notices a strong aroma rising from his medial cleft. He brings the fingers to his nose; his head recoils immediately from the foul stench that bares such similarity to the smells of the dream.

Charles squints his eyes in suspicious thought for a moment before pulling the blanket tight over his body and fading off for a quick nap, in wait for the occultist’s return.


 As consciousness returns to him, Charles opens his eyes quickly and gazes upon the night sky out his window. A turn of his head reveals the occultist woman, standing at the foot of his bed again, just as she had the two nights before.

“Good evening, enchantress; I trust you have another healing brew,” Charles mistrustfully asks.

“Indeed sir, my final brew and you shall be cured by daybreak,” she pulls another shell cup from her sleeve and hands it off to Charles; he stares into the rough green liquid with scorn as the bitter smell nips at his nose.

“So you say, occultist,” Charles looks at her intensely, studying her hard to read expression in the dim candlelight. Charles looks down at the cup once more, “And shall 
I need to sleep immediately, enchantress; just as with the other brews?”

“Yes, you must, for the potion to take hold,” she insists.

Charles lifts the cup and drinks the bitter brew, pained to swallow it down his throat. When he lowers the cup from his face, the occultist is already gone. Charles lies his head back down onto his pillow and closes his eyes but does not allow himself to sleep; instead he waits, and listens. He softly makes the sound of snoring.

Within a moment or two, Charles hears the subtle movement of the bookcase that covers the secret passage; he continues to snore with his eyes closed tight, subtly turning onto his back in preparation to pounce. Closer and closer the woman steps to the side of Charles’ bed, mere inches away now from his beleaguered breath.

Charles’ eyes pop wide open, “Aha!” He attempts to sit up but cannot even muster the strength to move his arms, let alone put weight on them.

The occultist jumps back a bit in surprise, her attitude nettled, “Did you intend to fool me, sir?”

“Intended and succeeded it seems to me, occultist; I’ve uncovered your sick nightly game,” Charles says, still struggling to sit up but it seems entirely in vain.

“Indeed you have but this is no mere game, sir; you’ve interrupted my very delicate procedures.” The woman ascends Charles’ bed as she had done the previous nights before as he was fast asleep, “And you shouldn’t bother trying to move, dear sir, you’ll find yourself quite incapacitated,” she smirks.

Charles is fearful as the woman towers over his immobilized body, “What are you doing to me, temptress?”

“That’s quite cruel, sir; I have devised this cure for you, and I intend to use it to do just that. I do not go back on my word.”

“Lies surely, from an evil woman!” Charles shakily rebuts.

“Enough sir!” The woman growls; she turns, lifting her skirt up to reveal her thick bloomers. She quickly sits down, covering Charles in the sweaty fabric of her undergarments. “You’ve already made this sufficiently difficult and yet I continue in aiding your ailment, though I know not why for one as callous and spiteful as you.”

Below her, Charles is practically drowning in a damp sea of perspired bloomers; the rough fabric mashed and caught up in his mouth, suffocating him.


The occultist chuckles cruelly and sighs, “Ah, first one of the night, dear Lord; I do hope you enjoy my flatulence while conscious as much as you do while unconscious. Your inhalation of my winds shall surely suffice as payment, sir.”

Charles’ head shakes aggressively but he’s unable to turn away while stuffed under the occultist’s knickers; his nostrils forced to endure the inhuman stench of the woman’s bowels blasted over his face.

“Aw, not enjoying this, sir? Though admittedly this pails in comparison to entering your dreams, I must say I’m having a ball of a time,” she laughs.


Charles painfully groans out as the repellant gas blasts through him; he gags viciously on the foul air as the wicked witch fluffs her bloomers a bit, ensuring to shake out all the remnant smell straight to Charles’ tormented face.

“Please, woman, have mercy..,” Charles weakly cries.

“Oh but I do, sir, this is why I wish to avail you of your illness so; perhaps your body could do for a bit more potency?” She asks rhetorically, reaching for the waistline of her bloomers and bringing them down to around her knees. Her odiferous bare backside hangs inches from Charles, wafting an impossibly strong smell over his features.

The occultist looks over her shoulder, enjoying the fearful expression on Charles’ face as she lowers her nude posterior over him; his subtle shakes and silent pleas all but buried now under her bum.

“Mmm, this is indeed much better, isn’t it, Lord?” She snickers.

Charles’ face is inundated in a moist crevice of wretched potence; his heavy breathing growing more labored in the humid crack of his sadistic healer.


Charles feels the woman’s repulsive rear hole bellow out at him, rubbing his face with its moist membranes as her gas savagely assaults his nostrils with a scent that’s inconceivably rank.

“Please stop this!” Charles wails out weakly.

“But the treatment is not yet done, sir.” The woman sneers, grinning wide at the sight of the struggling, helpless Lord beneath her bottom.


“Oh, I best trap that one inside,” the occultist taunts playfully.

Charles hears the subtle sounds of fabric falling, he can barely see the cloth dress come down around him; closing out the dim candlelight and the fresh air of the room.

“No, no no no...” he stammers fearfully.

“Bomb’s away!” The woman proudly announces, chuckling.


Charles groans on the grotesque flatulence that burns against his skin, filling his nose with a rotting smell worse than death itself.

“Please, you must stop this!” Charles barely chokes out, his senses dimming and his head becoming light.

The occultist laughs cruelly, watching the fight from Charles’ body diminish completely into a spastic seizing and incoherent wheezing. With a final stiff jerk and an arduous moan, Charles’ body falls still; and silence fills the room.


Charles wakes in a fury, tossing off the blankets and racing from his room while still wearing only his nightshirt; he stomps down the stairs nearly two at a time.

Richard appears at the bottom of the steps with a wide smile, he gushes, “My Lord, it’s good to see you up and around.”

“Not now, Richard,” Charles barely utters as he blows rapidly by his valet and out the door. He runs past the courtyard in search of a constable to relay his cruel encounter and have the wretched woman jailed for the remainder of her living days.

But then he suddenly stops himself before he gets past the dirt drive. Charles breathes in deeply through his nose, his passages clear and accepting of the delicate aromas of the day; the fresh cut lawns, the subtle scents of passionflowers growing on the vines. He puts a hand on his chest, noticing his easy breathing; his congestion entirely freed. His forehead is cool to the touch, his fever wholly allayed.

He smirks, impressed by the sudden change in his condition; surely the work of the peculiar but astoundingly effective occultist. As he turns back towards the house, he notices a slight weight in the pocket of his nightshirt; he reaches in and pulls out a small nautilus shell, with ornate scrimshaw design covering its surface.

Charles looks upon the pearled shell with awe, admiring its craftsmanship. He turns it over again, noticing very small writing inside the shell. He brings it up to his face to see but immediately recoils from the foul, familiar stench that emanates from inside. And yet, simultaneously, he finds it oddly alluring; he cringes as he brings the shell up again, squinting to see the words written inside.

Et Erit Expectanibus Te

Charles grins delightfully as he pulls the shell away, his glance lost for a moment as his mind is set aflutter by the occultist’s cryptic invitation.

“Richard?” He yells out.

After a moment, Richard pokes his head out the manor door, “Yes sir?”

“Draw a bath and ready my carriage at once, I think I shall be going into the country today,” Charles smiles; he puts the shell up to his nose again and inhales deeply, shuddering with delectation on the detestable yet seductive aromas of the occultist’s fragrant fumes.

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