Witch Hunter
Authors: Willow Sears
Willow Sears
Table of Contents
The mist was trying to cling to the valley floor but away from the trees the vapour had all but burned off. On such bright spring mornings the sun will always win. The horses still snorted tiny clouds from their nostrils but hers was the only one breaking the stillness, whinnying as it shook its head and chewed on its uncomfortable bit. She leaned forward to issue a terse command into the ear of her mount, and it too fell silent. As always for initiations she wore her
bassaris
, her long cloak of fox skins. It symbolised new life and the sacrifice that was about to be made for it.
Beneath the cloak was a simple white cotton gown, but below the swell of her breasts a pentagram had been drawn in blood-red, inverted to represent the goat of lust, its horns pointing upwards at the heavens in defiance. Her hair flowed down her back, darker red than her cloak, with raven streaks running through it. She glared at her prey, her fiery eyes heavily lined in black and further accentuated by a narrow band of crimson painted across them from ear to ear. Her teeth were bared and showed bright against the scarlet of her wide lips.
‘You understand why you are here and the nature of your punishment?’ she snarled.
The prey looked through her fringe with forlorn eyes, unable to stop the tremble in her voice that was due to the morning chill and the panic gushing through her young body.
‘Yes, Miss Morgana,’ she managed to whisper.
‘Then run,’ Morgana said.
The condemned girl let loose a sob and looked back at the long slope running away from her, down to the scattering of hedges in the valley bottom that would offer her so little refuge. There was only a gentle climb on the far side, stretching up to the cover of the wood nearly a mile away. Those trees offered the only real chance of escape. She would never make it. She turned to face her tormentors one last time, searching for any signs of clemency, but the mounted Priestess angrily gathered a wad of saliva and spat it at her. And so she ran.
She had rarely needed to break into anything more than a jog since her schooldays and immediately felt the judder of her belly and heavy breasts. She cursed the extra weight that had caused this sentence to be passed upon her. She had been dragged to this place straight from her bed, and her attire proved only a hindrance. Her slippers flew off immediately to leave her barefoot on the dewy grass. Her short nightgown rode up to flash her chubby bare behind, pale in the morning brightness, though nowhere near as white as the skin of the hunter girls behind her, whose whoops and jeers chased her down the hill.
Morgana watched her fleeing quarry with rising excitement and turned to her girls with proud delight. They were formed into a line on foot, their seething fuck-hunger palpable. Although they had to await her command they were at the very limits of their obedience. They had to hold each other back with raised elbows, gripping handfuls of each other’s flesh as their desire threatened to boil over, grasping each other’s hair to prevent any breaking of the line before the order was given. Despite their nearly uncontrollable lust any such disobedience would be ruthlessly punished, so they restrained one another out of necessity.
Their faces were lit with anticipation, none more so than the one gaining her first taste of the hunt. That girl wore the smooth red dildo at her groin, strapped in place over her deerskin leggings. The red of the dildo showed that she was to be blooded that day. All the girls wore the same: tight hide leggings constraining their ample thighs, and loose white smocks, many of which would be ripped off and discarded as they closed in, so that they fell upon their quarry with their chests bare. Their harnessed dildos were allocated by the Priestess herself, all smooth and hard but in varying sizes to signify seniority or current favour.
They wore ivy wreaths and painted faces, a few with pentagrams charcoaled onto their foreheads, one with a third eye drawn and coloured there, a couple with sanguineous tears painted on their cheeks, falling from eyes smudged with heavy black makeup. They all carried their staff – their
thyrsus
, to give it its proper name, though most of them privately referred to it as their fuck-stick. It was a rod some four feet in length, topped with a large pine cone. The shaft was wrapped in ivy and the end dressed with foliage, most of the girls opting for nettle leaves. It was their symbol, the staff carried by the legendary
bacchantes.
In ancient mythology they used the
thyrsus
to strike rocks and trees to elicit water or honey, or plunged it into rivers to turn the flowing water into wine, their lifeblood. Or they used it against the hunted, employing what was in truth a symbol of fertility to trip their victim and beat them into submission, before tearing them to pieces and even gorging on the still-warm flesh. Her girls had not quite descended to such barbarity, but the Priestess still sometimes felt she should reach the scene of the ‘kill’ in good time, just to be on the safe side.
Morgana turned her head from them and sought the gaze of the Master. He was flanked by two male escorts. They were all tall in their saddles, though he of course was the largest. His frame seemed even bulkier when swathed in his cape. Everything about him was black: the shirt beneath the heavy outer covering; the britches, stretched taut by the wide girth of the charger beneath him; his long boots in the stirrups; his gloved hands, one holding the silver claret goblet and raising it to his thin, pale lips. His eyes could scarcely be seen under the wide brim of his hat, but she saw his nod towards her, his acknowledgement that proceedings should begin. She felt the jump of adrenalin inside and turned again to her baying pack of hunter girls.
‘Get her,’ was all Morgana needed to say.
They were off in an instant, pushing away from each other to try and gain the lead, shrieking in their excitement. None of them was slight of build. All had thick thighs and paunches, big bottoms if not big breasts. But they were relatively fit and used to such exertion. Their prey was already flagging as they whooped after her. She was looking desperately back over her shoulder, having not yet even reached the first cover of the bushes. She would do as all other victims did. She would drag herself panting into the hedgerow, see the long climb up to the woods and know that it was impossible to get there. She would scramble around to find somewhere to hide, realising above her panic that it was a fruitless exercise. Then, with her heart banging in her chest and her lungs defeated, she would crouch amongst the scant cover of the bushes and await her inevitable capture. By the time the pack found her they would be beside themselves with bubbling desire, and she would bear the full force of it.
Morgana knew she had to get there soon after her girls did. She watched them follow their quarry into the thicket, scattering this way and that to find her and dig her out. She heard the raised cry of triumph and saw them dashing through the bushes towards the sound, each intent on getting her hands on the newly unearthed prize before the others, since the most gratification was to be gained from being one of those to overpower the victim, being one of the first to force a way into her when her body was quaking and whilst she still had the strength to scream her frantic passion into your ears. The scramble to get to their prey would be frenzied, and would leave her ravaged.
The Priestess kicked her horse into action and trotted down the hill. When she got to the mêlée the girl was already stripped bare, her body smeared with mud, grazed from their raking nails and red from their slaps. Her nipples were inflamed and pointing skywards, the flesh of her breasts flecked with nettle rash. She was on her back, her arms pinned to her sides. Her hips had been raised from the ground and her thighs forced wide apart so that a huntress could get on her knees between them. Her buttocks were being harshly gripped to hold her steady while she was taken. Some of the girls stroked their prey’s belly and chest with their nettles. Some bent over to pinch or bite her nipples. A couple of them concentrated not on their victim but on her lover, trying to pull her off by the hair so that they could take a turn of their own.
Morgana unhurriedly dismounted, smiling at the writhing mass before her. She went to her saddle bag and withdrew the huge silver penis. Its smooth surface gleamed in the sunlight. It was heavy to hold, solid metal. When it was on, it protruded a full eight inches from her body and was thick enough to fill her palm, so that her fingers could barely encompass its girth. There was a gentle upward curve to it and the head was formed into the distinct shape of a fat glans, tapering at its tip. It was the
queen
, as befitted her status.
She watched as the girls plundered their victim, moving her one way and then another, taking turns with their toys and fingers. Tears were streaking the face of the victim when Morgana stepped in and moved her onto all fours. She held her and delivered smack after smack to her poor wobbling bottom, turning the already scratched and welted flesh a deeper red. The girl cried out even louder but could only manage to thrust her battered posterior out into the hail of slaps. The puffy quim was visible between the large thighs, engorged by bliss and tingling nettle stings, treacherously glistening with the excitement that allowed her to be taken so deeply.
Morgana took off her cloak and spread it upon the ground alongside the girl. Then she lay upon it, with the gleaming silver spear phallus curving up towards the sky. The girl eyed it through her streaked hair, and then bit her lower lip to mask its trembling. The girl knew what she had to do, but still the Priestess ordered it.
‘Impale yourself,’ was the command.
The girl squatted over the silver penis and very slowly lowered herself, her tremors evident as soon as the tip spread her plump sex and disappeared inside her. She pushed down more, her eyes screwing shut as she slid herself down the cold length and took it deep. The surface of the toy was too smooth and her quim too slick to prevent it slipping all the way inside her, filling her completely. Her puss lips kissed the black leather harness as she rode the toy up and down, with Morgana’s nails gripping her rump and helping her movements.
She was breathing hard and threatening to come, but even with help from the Priestess she was tiring quickly after her ordeal. Morgana pulled her down to arrest the movements, embracing her tightly whilst calling forth the girl who was the subject of this hunt initiation, the one still sporting her bright red dildo. Again, the protocol was known but the Priestess still felt obliged to spell it out.
‘Fill her
cūlus
,’ she commanded.
The red-dildo girl hunkered down behind the quarry to study the little pink ring up for sacrifice. It was wet with spit and slightly open from the fingers that had invaded its tight confines, but the initiate took pity and reached for the battered vial that had been presented to her in the pre-hunt ceremony to be used for this very purpose, and that she now wore on a string around her neck. She removed the bung and dribbled the clear oily contents along the length of her dildo and onto the twitching bottom now at her mercy. She then took a firm grasp of the girl’s hips, pressed her toy to the target and drove herself forward.
The victim’s squeal almost broke into a scream but she bit her lip just in time and took the slide inside her, even pressing backwards to help its passage. She was given some respite but lust soon took over and she was taken, her soft cheeks splayed apart by the Priestess as the initiate slapped ruthlessly hard against her. Stuffed and filled and with her flesh quivering from the shock waves, she was brought to a rapid, hard climax. However, even when the dildo was finally removed, her ordeal was not yet over. All attention turned to the sound of slow clip-clopping hooves amongst them, which presaged what she must still endure.
