Witch Hunter (9 page)

The situation was building. In tasting the milk the girls were by no means sated, merely more aroused. The four who had already suckled were kissing each other hungrily, their faces wet from their passion. The two still feeding did so with ever greater greed, especially now that Morgana’s juice-slippery fingers were pumping in and out of them with vigour. The one still to have her turn, Mimi’s recent class neighbour, was standing with the small of her back pulled in, knees tight together and one hand pressed hard to her crotch, as if trying to hold back a deluge. Mimi recalled the ‘playtime’ this one girl had referred to. She couldn’t wait to witness it.

As Mimi unzipped her jeans, ready to shove her hand inside her knickers, there was a loud crack from below and she felt the crate beneath collapsing on one side. She scrabbled at the ledge for a hold but missed, bashing her fingertips instead on the underside of the thin ledge. With nothing holding her there it was impossible for Mimi to remain in view from the inside. She should have disappeared from sight the moment the plastic gave way beneath her. However, she seemed to take ages to fall, like she was hovering cartoon-like in thin air. It was long enough for her to see the Priestess’s eyes open from their rapture and focus upon the window. Enough to see the feasting girls release their suction grip in surprise.

Then Mimi was sprawling on the ground. Panic was coursing through her once more as she tried to fathom whether she had been seen. If she had been back far enough from the window then surely she would have been shrouded in darkness and invisible from the room. But she remembered the cold of the glass on her nose and the spread of mist on the pane from each panting breath. She was up and running. There was no time to move the broken crate and it would have to remain as damning evidence. If she was quick they might not get out in time to see her disappear behind the far treeline. From there her car was not visible and her escape would be masked.

She thought she heard the distant sound of a door opening but she couldn’t be sure. Was that voices? She seemed to be running in treacle. Despite the adrenalin flooding through her, she was moving far slower now than when she had run to get to the building in the first place. They would surely see her and identify her as the spy. Then what? She needed to be gone but she couldn’t cover the ground. It was like the treeline that spelled safety was on a conveyor belt, always moving away from her. It was going to be worse than just being seen and identified. They were going to run her down and catch her, right here. She was sure she could feel them at her back but she couldn’t bring herself to look. It was like a gathering force, a gush coming unstoppably her way, a tempest or a wave building behind her and catching her. She could feel the
whoosh!
in her ears and expected to be smashed to the floor at any second.

Then, as if someone had chopped out the final agonising twenty yards, she was suddenly there at her car, slapping her hands sharply against the roof to halt her momentum. The noise of the chasing force behind her died instantly. Rather than the expected massive impact she felt nothing but a breath of wind through her loose blouse, passing warm against her skin. She looked back and there was no one, nothing, just black silence and the same small distant square of light from the clubhouse window.

She drove off, cringing at the noise her starting engine made, taking the first hundred yards to freedom slowly and with no lights, constantly checking her mirrors. Nobody appeared in them. She had got away. Then she remembered the eyes of the Priestess the instant before they had disappeared from view. They had widened slightly, fired not with surprise but with excitement. They had shown recognition.

At home, Mimi had to masturbate twice in quick succession before she could even begin to get her head straight. She forced herself out of her room and into the lounge with the laptop, knowing the Spinster would be gone for another hour. That time would pass in a blur of frantic masturbation if she didn’t pull herself together and concentrate. Beneath the crowding thoughts of the beautiful witch and her coven of lusty girls there were serious matters to think of. If they were going to come after her she needed to be armed with all the evidence against them she could find. There was talk of mysterious godlike figures and male slaves. If the last bit was true then it could mean a story to make her name, one that might even make the nationals. She typed the title
KIDNAPPED!
at the top of her page.

She had to focus on the scraps of information she had gleaned. If there was even the slightest truth in what the girl had said in class then it had to be followed up. Firstly, who
were
these girls at the class? She had never seen any of them before and by their accents some at least were clearly not local. So where did they come from and where did they go afterwards? They couldn’t all stay with Morgana. What were they being taught at the class, since weight-loss didn’t seem to be the primary objective? Also, there was the mention of a ‘Lord’. If he existed, who was he and how was he able to lurk unseen within the estate? Sure, the owner was nearly always away and the Big House was mostly shut up, but an estate manager oversaw things, even if it was a huge territory to cover. Most importantly there was the mention of slaves. Even if it were untrue, her neighbouring classmate had clearly believed they existed.

She began to scour her borrowed library books for any clues, but the thoughts of Morgana were ghosting back, like she was compelled to think of her above all things. She was so beautiful, from head to toe, so completely captivating. This immediate, overwhelming crush upon another female was inexplicable. Mimi had fantasised about making love to another girl maybe ten times in her life, yet she felt sure she might have to double that count in this single evening. In fact, even as she sat there her eyes were closing and her breathing was becoming fitful and she knew she was swiftly losing the battle to avoid frigging herself off right there in the front room before the Spinster came back.

‘If kidnapping’s your subject then you’re in the right village.’

Mimi jumped a mile, the hand that had been heading inexorably towards her crotch shooting up guiltily to cover her little yelp of surprise. She hadn’t even heard the Spinster come in the front door, let alone into the room. Thank God she hadn’t given in to the reckless voice in her head urging her to go and get the little bullet vibe out of its hiding place. She mumbled a few things about investigating local rumours, mainly to try and cover her embarrassment. Fortunately the Spinster was raring to give her thoughts on the subject.

‘It’s that Haydn Shady, you mark my words. Remember I know Mary Trimble and she knew Sergeant Butler
very
well, if you catch my meaning, and he always said Shady was renowned for his kidnapping. None of them ever found, he says.
And
he’s back round here, though some reckon he never left. Hiding out, they reckon.’

The sound of the villain’s name had Mimi’s belly tingling. First the missing lads, now Haydn Shady, the two subjects of stories she had thought buried, now both mentioned in the same evening, and apparently linked. However, if there was one thing the Spinster was renowned for, it was for talking shit.

‘What do you mean, he’s back?’ Mimi asked, now a little more composed.

‘Don’t forget I know Old Aggy and she says she saw him. Her son was driving her over Hughenden way last week and she saw the man himself riding his horse on the back roads. She might be completely dotty but she says it was definitely him. No mistaking them eyes, she says, and she should know.’

‘What’s wrong with his eyes?’ Mimi asked, trying to dredge up any forgotten references to the villain’s appearance.

‘Old Aggy was the only one I know to have seen them. He always wore dark glasses, but she used to do pruning in the orchard for the old Baron and when the land was sold she just kept on doing what she always did. One day she walked slap-bang into Shady, took him totally by surprise. That’s when she saw his eyes. Cold as ice they were, almost turned her to stone.’

Mimi could feel the blood fizzing in her veins.

‘Tell me
everything
you know about witches in the village and Haydn Shady,’ she said.

The Spinster gave a little look that seemed to say,
oh, so now all of a sudden you are interested in what I have to say when before you never gave me the time of day,
but the instinct to gossip was just too great to ignore. She pulled up a chair, put her hand on Mimi’s forearm and launched into her speech.

‘Well, now …’ she began.

Mimi tried to listen, she really did, but those thoughts of Morgana kept coming back. Every time the word ‘witch’ was mentioned, the vivid images popped back into her head, however much she tried to drive them out. She couldn’t help seeing the witch as a sexy and overwhelmingly enticing figure. Nothing the Spinster said could stop the images of Morgana behind her, with her horn at her waist and her basque enclosing her curves. Mimi had no idea why she was so taken by this mysterious witch, or why she wasn’t planning to run a mile now that the connection with Haydn Shady had given everything a decidedly sinister dimension.

The witch was almost certainly coming for her soon. Danger was looming large and she seemed unable to drag herself away from it. If it had just been her journalistic instincts taking over then perhaps she could have forgiven herself, but in truth she knew she was driven by a sexual urge she had never felt before. Instead of heading for cover, she decided that the thing she
must
do, as soon as possible, was pay another visit to the ravishing Priestess.

The Master reclined on the velvet-covered chaise and gripped his erect prick at its base, holding it upright so it could be regarded with awe. He felt a rush of power and pride and exhaled in a snarl. Looking down his naked torso, all toned and oiled, and seeing this huge weapon, he knew why they all worshipped him with such fervour. It would be impossible not to. He did enjoy clasping his own prick. It was a constant smug reminder of why he ruled over these minions. Every time he gripped it he thrilled at how it filled his palm, like it was the first time he had ever seen or felt it. He couldn’t believe the rigid thickness of it, as wide as his own strong wrist.

In truth he was sure it had grown bigger over the last few years, perhaps somehow through pride. Maybe it had expanded like any muscle that was constantly worked. Possibly, just possibly, it had grown through Morgana’s secret handiwork; a spell maybe, or a potion slipped in his wine – she was certainly very fond of spiking his drinks. Strange, he couldn’t remember how large it had been in the years before he joined the coven as their god. He was sure it had always been big, but
this
big? Perhaps the spell only made him
think
it was so huge. Or maybe the spell made everyone who looked at it think it was huge, when in reality it was of far more meagre dimensions, which is why it could fit into the tight passages on constant offer to him. He didn’t care. As long as everyone gasped when they saw it and trembled at the thought of taking it, he was happy.

‘Would you like me to suck you, my Lord?’ said the girl, looking hopeful.

‘Dance for me,’ he replied brusquely.

The slave girl bowed her head in obedience and rose to her feet. There was music in the background – there was
always
music – just loud enough for her to pick up a rhythm to gyrate to. She closed her eyes, lifted her arms above her head and started to move from the waist, incorporating some of the belly-dancing moves that the witch had taught her. God, that witch knew how to seduce. Even when she wasn’t here her hand was in everything, an echo of her taunting presence. It seemed like hers was the only
cunnus
in the world his great prick had not been inside, and since hers was also the most beautiful his failure to slay her with a weapon all others found irresistible mocked him relentlessly. She never explained why she refused him. It drove him to distraction and they both knew he would not rest until he had been inside her. Of course he would have to rape her to do so, and he was supremely comfortable with this. In fact, since she teased him so mercilessly, he now wouldn’t want it any other way.

He knew full well that some of the potions she slipped him made him long for her. Although her spells gave him this constant nagging need to see her, he had taught other parts of his brain to be glad when she wasn’t around. Times like these, when she was elsewhere training her new girls, provided much-needed respite and a chance to indulge in his powers without being judged. Down here in the converted basement beneath the Big House he was sealed off from her, if only temporarily.

When he had purchased this place from the old Baron he immediately spent a vast sum renovating the disused servants’ quarters and wine cellar that constituted the huge subterranean basement. He envisaged it as a bunker, a private refuge to escape the law, or his enemies, should they ever come looking for him. Visitors not in the know would never dream what lay beneath their feet, and even if you did know you could spend hours and never hope to locate the secret entrance. First he had seen it as a place to house the coven girls, but Morgana insisted they live under her jurisdiction. He therefore converted the stable block on the far side of the estate to act as their quarters. The basement, he decided, would instead act as his Pleasure Palace. There would be his private chamber, a small dorm for the planned handful of male slaves, kitchen and toilet facilities, and the Fuck Room where he currently sat, designed to house his miniature orgies.

The whole place was soundproofed at great expense, so from the outside the house would seem uninhabited, although below stairs it could be a hive of wanton activity. He barely needed to use the rest of the house if he didn’t want to. It could act solely to create the impression of an abode for a legitimate businessman. He had the plans of the house redrawn so that no cellar appeared. A future owner might never even know of its existence. He could almost continue to live in it without them knowing he was there, although he might have to turn the sound down on the giant speakers that filled the Fuck Room with rave music. One day, centuries from now, some archaeologists might unearth it like a new Tutankhamun’s tomb, and wonder at the power and sexual prowess of the god who created it.