Witch Hunter (4 page)

However, another hero beat her to it. A few months before she secured her room at the Spinster’s house, the equally mysterious Pieter Bakkers stepped out of nowhere to help the ailing Baron. He was a powerful businessman who seemingly could not be bullied. He saved the day by buying up much of the estate’s remaining lands, promising to restore it to its former glory and never to sell off any further land. The loss of these ancestral lands and properties was tempered by the knowledge that they would be in the hands of someone with a genuine desire to keep the estate and restore it to its former glory.

Bakkers ‘discovered’ rare butterflies breeding in the meadows that the new road was set to go through, and quickly ensured the fields were designated as Sites of Special Scientific Interest, which meant that they were legally required to be maintained as they were. The proposed road plan was dead in the water. Mr Shady was no doubt grossly put out that his scam had failed but, rather than fight it in the way the villagers thought and feared he would, he instead decided to accept an offer from Bakkers for all the property and lands he had screwed from the Baron.

The price paid was apparently more than generous, an offer that simply could not be refused, although how anyone knew this, other than the protagonists and perhaps a single solicitor, was unclear. Maybe grateful locals were just quick to swell the legend of their saviour. Whatever the truth, Mr Shady sold up and slipped away without a word, leaving a new lord of the land in place, one who saw to it that the farmers were charged a fair rent again and that the village would never again come under threat.

Mimi was elated that Shady had been defeated but sad that her story had evaporated along with him. She would have loved to do a piece about the new hero but the man just seemed to be a ghost. No one ever saw him and no one could understand his vast generosity. The only explanation was that he was a true philanthropist, a lover of tradition and beauty and of the quiet, perfect villages quaintly nestling so far from his South African homeland. He made sure that buildings were properly maintained and, where necessary, renovated. He provided money for the church roof. He used his influence to ensure the post office stayed open, at a time when so many others fell under the axe.

Like most South Africans he was rugby mad, and he also came to the rescue of a local amateur rugby club who found themselves without a home. Not only did he assign an area to be used as a pitch, and build changing rooms and even some seating for the crowd, he designated other estate buildings as the clubhouse, to be used gratis by the team members for functions, and as a centre for the players to participate in outdoor leisure pursuits such as cycling and hiking, all great for building team spirit.

It was rumoured that the man himself secretly watched his new amateur side play, although no one seemed to know him by sight so no one could confirm this. It was said that he was away almost permanently on business, but it remained unclear why he never showed himself in person. Perhaps the weight of being so much the hero was too much for a genuinely generous man to carry. All dealings were overseen by an estate manager, and journalists’ requests for interviews with the Great Man were politely declined. Mimi knew she would win few friends by trying to unmask a beneficiary who wished to remain anonymous.

With the status quo returned, the village lapsed back into its tranquillity. Mimi even found herself a little isolated, particularly in the winter months. Her naughtiness seemed to increase exponentially with her boredom, and since Dominic was usually otherwise engaged or unreachable she had to resort to her fingers to sate her needs. Once in a while she found herself alone in the house and could dig out the carefully secreted vibrators. But on most nights the landlady stayed resolutely at home and Mimi came close to tearing out her hair with the frustration of not daring to reach for her toys. One overheard buzz and it would be all round the village before breakfast.

Her fingers were willing substitutes, seemingly working to their own plans as soon as her bedroom door was shut. Soon even the thought of another night in her room trying to avoid the Spinster’s incessant chatter had the strange dual effect of making her chest heave and her pussy tingle with anticipation. She seemed to spend all her leisure hours lost in either sticky-fingered escapism or guilt at her own wantonness. Her fantasies became more extravagant and drawn out, her head full of images of her being pleasured or, more commonly, abused by ever greater numbers of the most immoral people imaginable.

She tried to escape the slavery of masturbation by focusing on anything that might involve her in social life and keep her from her room and her mocking sex toys. She scanned the local paper for events or clubs she might join – anything that might prove more enticing than frigging while thinking about being held down and desecrated. Then one day she saw it, a barely noticeable advert in a little box buried within the classified section of her own paper.

‘The
Ana Lucia Plan
: a magical way to lose weight. For girls 18–30.’

Mimi didn’t know if the figures referred to size or age, nor had she ever heard of this Ana Lucia. But that wasn’t the name that struck her most. The one below it was; the one given as the contact, with a phone number beside it:
Morgana Innamorato
. Mimi thought the name so exotic that she repeated it over and over in her head and then felt compelled to say out loud, just to hear it roll off her tongue. The Spinster broke off from her TV-induced trance at the sound of the words, a deep frown forming as if it were sacrilege for that name to be spoken under her roof.

‘She’s a witch,’ she said, and meant it.

The landlady felt that no other qualification was needed and went back to her soap opera. Mimi’s imagination had already been captured and so, ever the journalist, she probed further. Apparently the charge had been levelled against the woman and had never been denied. It was said that she ran a coven from her house tucked away within the estate lands, and brainwashed accomplices to help her ensnare other victims. Wicked rites were performed including ritual sacrifice. Curses were laid upon any who dared to go against them. Money was extorted from landowners all around the county in exchange for spells to bring good crops and healthy livestock. Worst of all, it seemed, was her refusal to let women either too old or too fat into her slimming club to learn the magical weight-loss secrets of the
Ana Lucia Plan
.

‘I’ve tried to join several times,’ huffed the portly spinster, ‘but she don’t ever allow it.’

Mimi smiled to herself, convinced now that Miss Innamorato was no more evil or insane than any of the villagers. Her heart was pumping though, enlivened by unfounded tales of sorcery by an exotically named local beauty who ran a Fat Class that banned overweight old women who talked too much. That kind of club, Mimi mused, was one that she definitely needed to seek out. And so she did.

He watched silently, stroking his pointed goatee. He liked the goatee. Very few could carry off such a devilish beard, and he was definitely one of them. Not only did it bring length and sharpness to his already strong jaw, but the sheer
blackness
of it seemed to make his steel-blue eyes even more piercing, if that were possible. His eyes defined him. They were mesmerising to all. Once people stared into them, and this was something they couldn’t help but do, his word became their command. It had been so since his earliest days.

‘Take that prick from your mouth and move on to the next one,’ he said, and she did.

He could see that
her
eyes were bright, manic even. He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. Always look at the eyes. All truth is stored there, on display to everyone, all of the time. His were the only exception; his only ever said,
Be very scared
. A silver thread of saliva joined her lips to the erect penis she had just been sucking. The wet shaft bore testament to the fact that she had avidly swallowed the whole slender length of it. She was breathing loudly and still staring hungrily at the erection as if she wasn’t yet ready to stop feasting upon it. Then her focus changed as she saw the next one waiting in line. She grasped the just-sucked prick and used it as a support whilst she shuffled sideways upon her knees. She even kept hold of it as she sank her mouth onto the new prick and let out a loud moan of joy.

A little darker blue and his eyes would have had a different effect on people. He might even have been considered angelic – by those who judge character by physical appearance. As it was they made him a demon. They were vivid ice-cold coronas around a black oversized centre. The ring was pale but intense, captivating and unique but unnerving. If they reflected his soul then he must be a man with a heart of steel. Was it too much to say that if they had been just a little darker blue he would have had a completely different life?

People always defer to size but he had been put on a pedestal way before he grew so large. From his earliest years he learned to dominate his peers, to create a mysterious power around the eyes. He soon began to feel contempt for those around him, for the way they grovelled and blinked and looked away. He became a manipulator, a tyrant, a bully. What else is there to do when people allow it so freely? He was nearly six and a half feet tall when he finally stopped growing. Never gangly, he was always wide and solidly built. He learned boxing after he left school and could have been professional if he hadn’t considered the sport beneath him. He just wanted to know how to use his fists most effectively.

At university he joined a club that taught sword-fighting. Not wimpy fencing, with its weird tight mummy-suits and camp
touché
s, but genuinely useful ancient techniques, like how to wield a broadsword in anger. The club was full of
Dungeons and Dragons
freaks and those obsessed with Arthurian legend. He scared the life out of all of them. They called him ‘the Kurgan’ after the villain from the
Highlander
film. The comparison swelled him. He made himself a mock-up of the Kurgan’s armour, fashioned from black leather and chainmail taken from others at the club. In secret he would dress in it and parade around in front of a long mirror, swiping his sword whilst he imagined himself as the immortal demon-warrior. He enjoyed it so much that he would pull out his engorged penis and masturbate, still snarling and swiping thin air with his blade as he splashed the glass.

The girl’s head was now bobbing up and down on the new prick as she tried to ingest as much of its length as she could. Her arms were reaching out to the sides, grasping and stroking the erections there, one already sucked, the other the next in line. Her audible appreciation of the cocks was ever growing and she stuck her bare bottom out as if hoping to lure another one inside her. Perhaps one of the lads of the line would have been aroused enough to want to oblige her, had they not all been chained to the wall with their hands secured behind their backs.

He studied the pristine white skin stretched over her chubby behind. The treatment had worked well. He remembered this one had had at least five small but prominent moles on her buttocks, a tiny constellation across her milky cheeks. Now there was no sign. When he finally came to bend her over and parted those cheeks he would find the darkness around her holes all gone, the openings and the delicate skin between them almost as pale as the hemispheres of her bottom.

The cryosurgery to eliminate the darker pigmentation was expensive, especially as he had to send his newly initiated girls to a clinic in the States for the treatment. However, it was worth it for the speed and thoroughness of the job. The results were always outstanding. As soon as his girls were accepted into his Sacred Order they were given a combination of whitening pills and creams for daily use, imported illegally from Europe, Japan or America. These helped lighten the moles and other surface blemishes but the process was slow. Sometimes minor surgery or a cleansing blast was required. He needed his girls pristine, as flawless as the statues of the bacchantes of antiquity. The legends all said that these girls had been perfect, and so they should be for him now. His status demanded no less; his
prick
demanded no less.

Those legends mostly told of the bacchantes’ voracious sexual hunger, and this girl was doing her best to honour that tradition. She was still loudly trying to engulf the one penis whilst running her closed fists swiftly up and down the straining lengths at either side of her. She clearly couldn’t get enough and here were six hard beauties all in a line, just for her. His massive member would make it lucky seven. His was the last she would have seen, some weeks ago now. That had been the day of her initiation hunt, when she had watched him stretch and fill a virgin
cūlus
to its limits. At that point, she truly became his.

He might one day let her feel the same joy that plundered bottom had felt, but not today. Other, slimmer erections would go there but not his monster. It was something to be used sparingly, to make sure she always hankered after it and yearned for the chance to feel it stream inside her. In the meantime there were many other ways to ensure she stayed within the fold until he no longer had use for her. Today’s ceremony, officially called
The Cleansing
, though more commonly known amongst the girls as
The Spattering
, was chief amongst these ways. This was another day she would never forget.

She had been jetted back only the day before and given a night to get over her trip. Earlier she had been overseen by Morgana, who always prepared her girls in person. She would have been bathed and then soothed all over with lotion. No depilation was necessary as during the stay at the clinic electrolysis was also undertaken to ensure no more hair grew around her privates. Priestess Morgana would have talked all the time about stiff pricks. They would have looked at glossy magazine pictures of lovely erections and discussed them in great detail. Throughout her long schooling period in this Order the girl would have been denied all flesh cocks. Once initiated, there was the promise of as many as she could take, starting that very day. She would have been dying for them.