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  Rakshasa Perfume Oil

  This haunting, exotic scent is named in honor of the shapeshifting demons from Hindu mythology. Sandalwood with rose and patchouli.

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  Wanda Perfume Oil

  “And yet a restless, always unsatisfied craving for the nudity of paganism,” she interrupted, “but that love, which is the highest joy, which is divine simplicity itself, is not for you moderns, you children of reflection. It works only evil in you. As soon as you wish to be natural, you become common. To you nature seems something hostile; you have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, and out of me a demon. You can only exorcise and curse me, or slay yourselves in bacchantic madness before my altar. And if ever one of you has had the courage to kiss my red mouth, he makes a barefoot pilgrimage to Rome in penitential robes and expects flowers to grow from his withered staff, while under my feet roses, violets, and myrtles spring up every hour, but their fragrance does not agree with you. Stay among your northern fogs and Christian incense; let us pagans remain under the debris, beneath the lava; do not disinter us. Pompeii was not built for you, nor our villas, our baths, our temples. You do not require gods. We are chilled in your world.”

  Along with Loviatar, she has become something of a Patron Goddess of all Dominatrixes, Wanda is the breathtakingly beautiful sable-wrapped marble queen of Sacher-Masoch’s fantasies. Her scent is a deep red merlot with a faint hint of leather, sexual musk and body heat over crushed roses, violets and myrtle.

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  Ode on Melancholy Perfume Oil

  No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
  Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
  Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
  By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
  Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
  Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
  Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
  A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
  For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
  And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

  But when the melancholy fit shall fall
  Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
  That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
  And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
  Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
  Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
  Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
  Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
  Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
  And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

  She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die;
  And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
  Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
  Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
  Ay, in the very temple of Delight
  Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
  Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
  Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
  His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
  And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

  Beauty, joy, pleasure and delight: devastated. This is the scent of the hopelessness, torment and despair of love. Lavender and wisteria, heart-wrenching pale rose, desolate white sandalwood and thin, tear-streaked white musk.

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  Blood Rose Perfume Oil

  Sensual, robust, and silken: voluptuous red rose bursting with lascivious red wine and sultry dragon’s blood resin.

  Out of Stock This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page