Witch Hunter (6 page)

‘You,’ was all he needed to say.

The lad climbed onto the platform and crouched down behind her. Although all the slaves were primarily there to service rather than take their own pleasure, during the various rites and orgies this lad used his seniority over the others to ensure he dealt out just as many buggerings as he received.

She couldn’t even squeal any more; her only audible emission was a gust of breath from her open mouth. The Master knew that she would have been wishing for
him
in her tightest passage.

He let the first lad pump away until his initial rapid pace showed signs of slowing. Then he was ordered off and the next lad took his place. Each took their turn above him as she flooded his prick and drifted ever closer to unconsciousness. Each was replaced as soon as their pace flagged. She just lay there and took them all, burbling her new-found bliss. Each fresh lad could enter more easily. The last, the newest recruit, taken in barely a fortnight before, slipped into her with no pause whatsoever, even though it might have been the first time he had ever committed this delicious act.

Once they had all been through her he eased her off and left her face-down upon the platform. Although it looked as if she might expire if she received any more pleasure, he wasn’t quite done with her yet. He pulled her hips back so that her bottom was at the edge of the platform, moved his way between her thighs once more and plunged deep into her sex. She had no resistance to offer. This was his favourite position: like a beast from the rear, holding her cheeks open, his heavy balls slapping her intimate flesh.

She found her voice once more, emitting a piercing scream that told of her joy. He roared in triumph as his balls tightened painfully with the force of his ejaculation. She was completely spent, beyond euphoria. He clutched and waggled his softening prick, like a fat python in his hand.

The girl would be taken back to Morgana and granted a good two weeks’ respite. It would be a chance to stoke her rude passions again. When she was once more granted licence to have sex she would be mad for it. She would do it with rabid abandon, fuelled by drink and Morgana’s herbal brews. She would dance until possessed and then erupt with sexual fury. He considered no sight more wonderful than that of a young girl utterly lost to wantonness; these seemingly pure girls, with their faultless white skin and their neat, delicate, innocent-looking quims, all suddenly transformed into lust-filled savages; their young perfect rumps, as smooth, ample and apparently guilt-free as those of the bacchantes who adorned his Lalique vases, suddenly being squashed and ground into the face of their victim, or driven down with shuddering force upon a hard cock or anything else that might do for one.

He knew all about the Bacchanalia from his classical studies at university, although back then he had only vague dreams of rekindling these ceremonies. It happened more by accident. By his mid-thirties, part of his burgeoning business empire included the promotion of club nights aimed at students in university towns. He used a DJ who did a surprisingly good set of goth/dance music mixes that seemed to wow the new wave of emos, who were far more into having fun than the morbid soap-dodging goths of his college days. The nights grew in popularity – especially because it was strictly forbidden to bring in drugs. Doormen were very thorough with their searches and woe betide anyone trying to smuggle gear inside. Once in, however, and suddenly all manner of drugs were apparently on offer, all of good quality and at very fair prices, available from certain shady-looking gentlemen who just happened to be in the employ of the promoter.

One night he was watching as the DJ was whipping up the crowd. One girl, with short pink punk hair, clearly under the influence, suddenly decided that the only way to truly embody the excitement of the music was to take her top off. She jumped around waving her hands in the air, her little tiny-nippled tits bouncing free. Then her red tartan miniskirt was off and she was leaping around, singing her head off, in just shiny black Doc Martens boots and a pair of short, pink, lacy knickers.

It was the most arresting sight he could remember. She looked wild and free and gorgeous. Some of her friends seemed to be going to follow suit, but this girl was getting too heated and as she bounced around to the music her hand went down between her legs to squeeze at her crotch. Even this he would have allowed but the girl was too pumped up to keep it at that. When she took her hand off her crotch and thrust it inside her knickers, he clicked his fingers and his bouncers went into action.

He had the girl immediately ejected from the dancefloor and thrown across his office desk, where he gave her what she was literally crying out for. It was probably the most frantic fuck of his life. Her frenzied shamelessness was a real turn-on. He loved the fact that she had publicly stripped and paraded her half-bare arse even though it was plump enough to be marked by little dimples in the surface. He adored her young white flesh when she was bent over in front of him. It was nearly glorious. Only her fatly lewd, dark-lipped cunt made her look too lascivious to be perfect.

It was only after she had been turned out onto the street that he wished he had taken more time to study this girl and make more use of her. He missed her flagrant disregard for morals. He decided that he must encourage the same in others. He began running similar nights after hours in a pub he had recently acquired, which he renamed the
Bag o’ Nails
, in honour of the ancient Bacchanals to be restaged there. The nights were only a partial success. He hired young prostitutes to get high and dance around and then strip off, in the hope of encouraging the paying female guests to do the same. Although the flyers on each table showed pictures of nymphs in unabashed action, the local ‘nymphs’ all seemed too reticent. The nights mainly consisted of the prostitutes being manhandled by fat middle-aged men in leather trousers.

He didn’t like the lack of spontaneity, or the fact that the street girls looked so rough and used. He wanted real girls, ones driven by lust for flesh rather than for money, ones like that pink-haired punk at the club. He started advertising in select publications for ‘witches and bitches’ to attend his Bacchanalian nights, promising free drinks and even accommodation. For once he didn’t even care if the nights only turned a small profit. He just wanted to watch a room full of horny young females getting naked and wild. The thought of ‘normal’ girls being driven into a frenzy made him insatiable.

One evening a couple of nubile goth-witch bitches showed up. The night ended with them simultaneously fingering one of his barmaids while she pinched her own bare nipples, under his instruction. He was about to service both these girls but they told him they belonged to their Priestess and pointed into the shadows. In the gloomy corner was their Mistress, one Morgana Innamorato. He took out his erect cock but she refused it, the first female ever to dare do so. Notwithstanding this awkward start, they soon got on well, kindred spirits as they were, although it helped that she granted him his wish and let him have both the bitches, side by side, over his desk.

Whilst he pounded the girls from behind, Morgana told him of her worship of the god Bacchus, how she was the reincarnation of Paculla Annia and had her own coven of orgy-loving girls. These girls loved their Priestess but they needed a god. It was obvious by the way he had these bitches creaming and screaming that she meant
him
. He was, after all, a huge-cocked, bald-headed giant with captivating, chilling eyes. It was clear she would never in her life meet anyone more imposing and extraordinary, more suitably
divine
. If he agreed to be their focus of worship, they would give him all the private Bacchanals he could handle. It seemed the ideal set-up.

However, as always, there was a catch. She told him of her problem in keeping her coven together, of needing to find somewhere for them to act out their rites in secret. She owned a cottage in the grounds of an ancient estate, but the landlord was rightly suspicious of her activities. She feared eviction, especially as the landlord was in dire financial straits and was under pressure to sell off some of the estate, which could have proved difficult with a renowned witch living there. If she was thrown out the coven would dissolve, ruining years of careful planning. That’s where
he
came in, their god and saviour.

He agreed to discuss helping, once Morgana had agreed to suck his balls and put her finger up his backside.

‘I am your god, after all,’ he said with a smile.

It warmed his cold heart to get this mad Priestess on her knees. Nonetheless, a partnership with her certainly appealed. She was more ravishing than any woman he had seen and her love of the more licentious practices of classical civilisation was uncannily close to his own. Anyway, if his full, prosperous life was missing anything then it was surely an on-tap bevy of lusty witch-girls to service him. It was about time he was showered with the adoration he deserved. He liked how pure these girls were with their pale skin. They reminded him of the pink-haired punk that he had so stupidly let slip. Morgana gave one of her wolfish grins and told him it was all due to the potions she fed them. He liked that word ‘potions’. It meant they were on the same wavelength.

Morgana then stood and slowly stripped, showing off her Amazonian figure and flawless white skin. There was not a mark upon it. Her breasts were large, firm, with small pink nipples. There was flesh to her but no excess anywhere. Her belly was smooth and indented with a deep button. Her pussy was hairless and cute, a little dark line splitting her soft mons. Her hips were wide and her bottom was the most perfect he had ever seen – plump, with a lovely round curve and no suggestion of sag despite its weight.

‘I am ageless,’ she said. ‘I have spells that can make me look this way for all time. Even in this current incarnation I am over four hundred years old.’

With anyone else such talk might have been met with a jeering response, but for one who considered himself the Kurgan made flesh such talk of immortality only fired his soul.

The girls were now at the feet of their Priestess. He decided he had to have her and grasped her arms and pushed her onto all fours. Her peachy bottom was so smooth and sweet-smelling he was almost overwhelmed by the need to sink his teeth into it. His fat erection was only millimetres from her delectable sex when she suddenly looked back over her shoulder, fiery-eyed. She babbled some incantation and pointed at his erection, and he watched it helplessly deflate.

He sneered as she nonchalantly got up and dressed, telling him that she was someone he would never have. He wasn’t beaten yet, though.

‘If I can’t have you,’ he said, ‘then I must have the next best thing. All your girls must have exactly the same body as you. The big breasts I can live without, but the skin must be as pure as yours, the pussy as pristine and neat, the hips and rump exactly the same size as yours.’

He was clearly enjoying this plan to become their god, and so it was agreed. If he would provide the base, Morgana would attract the girls and build the coven. She would oversee and teach the girls, and they would in turn worship him. He was to pay for the upkeep of the coven and was obliged to respect their rites and ceremonies, but he could avail himself of the girls however and whenever he chose. As a parting gift Morgana reversed the spell and left the girls to tend to his erection.

She went back to plan her new coven and he, this oddly named Haydn Shady, went about looking into the estate he was to try and buy. Initial research suggested it would be a suitable kingdom for him to rule over. Then an unscrupulous town planner disclosed that part of the estate was on the route of a proposed bypass. If certain other permissions could be gained for the road’s construction, then handsome offers would be made for these lands. Purchase of the estate could therefore prove extremely lucrative. This was information he decided to keep from his new friend the immortal witch.

That meeting had been a few years ago, and whilst he had let his hair grow and now sometimes had to pluck a few grey strands from his new goatee, she had not changed in the slightest. The coven had grown, some fully-fledged bacchantes had been created and others were in training to join the ranks. His manhood was in a permanent state of arousal and the rudeness of it never bored him, not even for a second, helped perhaps by Morgana’s Lust Tonics. The bacchantes led a life of simmering desire, which was stoked into a frenzy every few weeks during ceremonies or ritual punishments.

As their god, it was down to him to ensure their continued happiness, along with his own. As a stickler for accuracy, he was keenly aware that in classical tradition the practice of the Orders revolved around the ravaging of strangers. His own Order was falling short in this respect. So far their circle was closed, and orgies involved only members of the extended coven. Time was now pressing to find outsiders to lure in, if a way could be devised to maintain the secret. He was sure he could think of one. He already knew a tried and tested method. All he needed was a suitable candidate.

Thus his ears pricked up when Morgana told him of a new female interested in joining up to the
Ana Lucia Plan
. The Priestess had spies everywhere so background on this girl was not hard to find. She was pretty by all accounts, and heavy-hipped enough to be crafted into the kind of female he needed. Morgana would no doubt want to train this girl properly, hungry as she was for any new potential followers. However, this female was already in her mid-twenties, older by a couple of years than even the longest-serving girls. He wanted none past 24, at the most.

Worse still, this female was a journalist – a two-bit journalist, but one nonetheless. He didn’t trust anyone connected with publicity of any kind. He didn’t need natural snoops. Morgana was less cautious. She thought all girls equal and there for the turning. She wanted them for herself, he knew that. The bigger her coven, the greater her power. Well, he would keep her sweet for now. Although this female could be gently introduced to their Order, she was to be kept strictly at arm’s length. No matter how much Morgana wanted her in, he would thwart all such requests, keeping the female on the periphery just to ensure she was easy to lure in. When the time was right he would give his girls what he knew they craved. He would give them a pretty outsider to hunt down and tear to pieces. This female journalist would be the first one they didn’t have to spare.