Witch Hunter
Willow Sears

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

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.

Morgana looked up at the Master on his mount and grinned broadly, clutching the victim tight to her with the metal appendage still completely embedded in her body. He studied the scene for a while, taking stock of the girl’s bottom and sex.

He dismounted, his eyes firmly on the girl’s rear end as he made his slow approach. He opened his cloak and unfastened the front of his britches so that he could haul out his huge thick erection. The wretch looked around to see his fat meat bobbing up and down with the blood surging into it. He took a small bottle from his inside pocket, removed the cap, held her hair and thrust the bottle under her nose so that she was forced to take a deep breath of the emanating vapours. Her jaw dropped open.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ he said with a sneer, ‘I am.’

He presented his great erection and pressed forward slowly, more so than the newcomer before him, since he was twice as thick as the toy she had sported. Very gradually he broke the girl’s resistance and slid the full length inside her. It seemed an impossible quantity of turgid flesh to take. She howled but held still, the ecstasy spread all over her face. Once he was fully embedded he waited for her muscles to grip his girth and squeeze him. This pressure, plus the ache within his bladder, was enough to make his erection flag just a little. He exalted in his power over her. She would remember this act for ever, just as they all did. None of them would ever take a fatter cock than his, certainly not in their bottom. To be stretched open by him was bliss enough. They would dream of this experience in all their private moments and pray that he would come to them again one day to repeat it. Nothing else they did would ever match this moment. No one else would ever be more in their thoughts.

The girl sank down against her Priestess, the feeling all too much to take. He roared in triumph and proceeded to slide his cock in and out of her backside, taking it nearly all the way out and then driving it home to slap hard against her buttocks over and over. The girl was very nearly passing out but Morgana showed rare compassion, pressing her full lips to the girl’s open mouth and kissing her lovingly, trying to give her the strength for one more climax before he finished.

He threw his head back and bellowed, slapping the wretch’s defenceless bottom as he came inside her. He gritted his teeth as the tremors rocked him. As soon as they subsided, he slipped his softening prick from her, unceremoniously stuffed it back into his britches and remounted his horse. The wretch gingerly slipped off the metal toy and stood on shaking legs.

Currently there was a two-tier system for his girls: those on the periphery, sworn to secrecy and schooled in the rituals though not allowed to partake in them, except as victims if they broke any rules or conditions; and the bacchantes, his fully-fledged initiates, who lived and worshipped exactly by his code, who purified their skin and swore to do anything in his name, the more immoral and degenerate the better. The entire British Isles yielded few more than a dozen girls who had such dark hearts, such wanton souls that they would seek him out and embrace his vision of perverted nihilism. He needed more. He needed genuine victims to reward their loyalty.

He spurred on his horse and trotted out of the wood with his escort in tow. The orgy would continue in his absence, for the hunters were now crazed with desire after this show. Their reverence for him would be raging inside and they would want to demonstrate their homage through depravity. They would jostle for the chance to indulge themselves further with the initiate, and then they would fall upon each other, as if possessed.

The bushes would be alive with their gasps and cries, the sound of sex and slapping flesh. It would have been surreal and horrifying for anyone who chanced upon the scene, but this was impossible since all the lands around were privately owned, and no one would ever dare trespass. It was his secret dominion. Here he was God, and anyone who was either lured there or strayed onto these lands would feel the full force of his divinely demonic lusts. Indeed, they might never get to see the real world again, even after he was finished with them.

1

Mimi decided early that it was a perfect day for a picnic. She knew the perfect spot too, found just a few weeks ago when she had been out walking alone. She had been drawn off the beaten track after sighting a fox. She had tracked it through to a small clearing where she had stayed crouched behind the greying trunk of a fallen oak, watching it as it played around and pounced upon leaves and insects. It had been a magical few moments. She had felt a sudden surge of elation at this window on nature. She had seemed at one with the world, experiencing a mixture of freedom and security, cosseted as she was by the dense foliage surrounding her.

She had also felt a rather uncharacteristic urge to frolic. She had flashing images of herself stripping off right there, although such daring public naughtiness was hardly her forte. She might even have gone through with it if it hadn’t been rather too chilly that morning for whipping your bits out, especially when brush-tailed wild animals might be watching. If she had been there with someone else, though, and that someone had taken it upon themselves to ravish her, maybe forcing her over that same fallen trunk and ripping her knickers away to leave her at his mercy, why, then there would have been little she could do about it. No one would have been around to come to her aid, there would be nothing she could do to resist being plundered, maybe even spanked …

So a picnic it was, and lazy Dominic would have to play the loving boyfriend and drag his arse out of bed to accompany her, even though he had sounded so uninterested in the whole idea on the phone. He didn’t even seem to care that he would be off back to college in a few days and this would be one of their last chances to be alone for a while. Fortunately that morning the Spinster had gone off to garner the latest village tittle-tattle, giving Mimi free rein of the kitchen to prepare a picnic for two without prying eyes and uncomfortable questions. Dominic was her secret and tongues would be ceaselessly wagging if anyone knew they were an item.

Getting out of her room and having the run of that gorgeous wisteria-covered cottage was a treat in itself, however brief such moments were. She loved the place. One day she hoped to have enough money to buy just such a property within the village, but for now renting a room was a more than acceptable alternative, despite having to share with the spinster landlady. It meant a time-consuming drive to reach work in Oxford, but the quiet leafy lanes could make your heart soar with optimism when the early sun lit the green, flint-strewn fields and the beech woods behind, and brought the hedgerows alive. It had been a different story in her first winter, when any snowfall or thick ice rendered the roads impassable and forced her to exist for days off pub food or remnants in the freezer. She didn’t care though. Anything was worth it to live here. She had coveted a place in the village for as long as she could remember.

She had grown up in the nearby town where Dominic now lived. Her parents would bring the family out here for summer picnics in the glades or autumn walks amongst the copper-leaved trees. They provided many of her fondest childhood memories: colour-splashed meadows, swallows dipping and zipping over lush-cropped fields, dew-covered cobwebs amid frosty thickets, or pristine snow blankets and freezing breath. Sun or rain, it was always special. She tried to imbue her lethargic boyfriend with the same enthusiasm as they sauntered through those woods on the way to her Secret Location, but he had his standard couldn’t-give-a-fuck face on. He seemed so one-dimensional sometimes that it wearied her. How their short relationship had continued was a mystery.

He was tall and nicely muscular, and good-looking in a posh-student way. Plus he had the most delectable of pricks: slim but very long and silky-smooth when erect, which was often. It seemed to have a mind of its own. It certainly had more go than the rest of him. A few times when she was making advances he had seemed to be crying off, only to be outvoted by his own member. And once unleashed it could certainly hammer home with the best of them, even if its owner was more than a little unimaginative when it came to dirty business.

The staying power and speedy recovery rate of his young erection ensured she was never left disappointed. That was not something she had always been able to claim in the past, so it was worth clinging on to, even if the man himself could barely raise the passion to hold her hand, better still delight in the promise of the secret place she was taking him to. He could gather even less zeal for the smells and the promise of the day that were firing her, or for the snatched views across the landscape of her childhood haunts.

The timelessly pretty villages and hamlets here were dotted around the countryside, some more easily reached across the fields than by the narrow roads. To her they all seemed like miniature empires in sleeping valleys, all unique despite their close proximity, all holding their own wonderful secrets that were jealously guarded from outsiders. In more recent times these outsiders had come to populate the villages. The steep rise in house prices forced the locals elsewhere as wealthy Oxford and London commuters took over. Affluence was pervasive, but nowhere lost its ancient, deep-set notion of serfdom, of the poor locals giving service to their richer landowners. The old customs and folklore were maintained and even the new wealth could not diminish it. The newcomers simply had to absorb the traditions or suffer isolation.

Before Mimi had even moved into her room, some nine months ago, her gossip-happy landlady had shuffled her fat posterior from house to church to village hall telling anyone who wanted to know that a young journalist from the Echo was to be her new tenant. Fortunately, the Spinster also told everyone that she was a local girl, so Mimi found herself more immediately accepted than some of the London incomers would be, although she still noticed some reticence when being spoken to. She guessed she would have to live there a good many years before this wore off.

She also noticed that she became a hub for gossip. If certain blabbermouths wanted a scandal spread around they often ‘accidentally’ divulged their secret within her earshot, as if she had the power to splash it across the front pages. This didn’t bother her. Hopefully one day the local scandal might well prove to be the roots of the very story she was desperate to break, the one that did indeed make headlines and get her noticed.

She would be the first to admit that in nearly five years at the Echo she hadn’t made the impact she had intended. She was well-liked and appreciated but she suspected this was more for her prick-pleasing attributes than for her journalistic prowess. She had the kind of looks that many men seemingly found hard to ignore, although they tended to induce private thoughts of filthiness rather than outward declarations of love. She was blonde and by many accounts very pretty. She received plenty of compliments about her large blue eyes and her sunshine smile, but it was her body that brought out the lust in her admirers.

You could just see indications of extra weight under her chin but if she stayed hiding behind her desk you might never realise that she was quite a big girl. Her breasts were a nice handful and still perky and there was a paunch but by no means a roll. It was her bum and thighs that carried most of the excess. Her bottom stuck out from the pronounced dip at the small of her back, defining a round curve down to the heavy tuck. In loose skirts she thought she looked like she was wearing a small Victorian bustle, so she always stuck to tighter ones, even though it might look as if she was trying to show off her biggest asset.

Her thighs and calves were thick but firm and soft white under the stockings she habitually wore for work. As soon as she got home it was straight into clothes more suitable for country living, but when at the office or out seeking stories she always took to her high heels and hosiery and squeezed her fat bum into hip-hugging skirts, although her intention was always to look businesslike rather than plain sexy. She wasn’t entirely happy with her body. If the glossy mags were to be believed, her figure should have been a turn-off for most. However, for so many it seemed one to lust after, to build your dirtiest fantasies around. One former beau had told her plainly: ‘The thought of your bare arse bending over in front of him could send any sane man senseless. You are the kind of girl you want to touch, to kiss and squeeze, to bury yourself deep inside.’

She even found that drunken girls at office parties hugged her for longer than was considered appropriate, or snatched New Year kisses from her under the pretence of doing it to wind up the guys.

She was certainly no tease though. She wasn’t quite ready to settle down but within her was the feeling that she should be looking for something more meaningful than a few dates and some quick, urgent sex before an inevitable petering out. All this made her question the wisdom of her more-off-than-on relationship with Dominic, who at barely nineteen was seven years her junior.

She had met him when following up a story about lads from the area disappearing ‘without trace’. In the last few years five males from the locale in either their late teens or early twenties had abruptly departed, leaving friends and family behind without any warning. This would have been odd, were it not that such deathly quiet villages were a graveyard for youthful ambition and could not compete with the brighter lights of any town or city. As for ‘without trace’, this wasn’t quite an accurate description of their disappearance, since all of them wrote home telling loved ones that they were fine and settled. These letters had continued to arrive at fairly regular intervals. True, in these days of mobile phones and texts, it was strange that they solely communicated by letter, but if you had escaped and didn’t want to be found and dragged back home, it was the safest form of contact. All the boys shared one thing in common: they were bright, fit lads who were expected to do well in life. Maybe it was merely the weight of expectation that drove them away, and once one went others followed the example. One thing was for sure, there was certainly no front-page story in it.

Mimi now met Dominic less and less often, and not just because her work made her keep odd hours or he was busy with his college studies. Despite his obvious intelligence, the immaturity – or, to be fairer, the lack of life experience – was beginning to tell. It was nice to have an athlete in bed but Mimi was aware of his shallowness. He was also somehow detached when they had sex. He would slam into her from the back as avidly as any former lover, but she never felt his simmering lust before they got to bed or any closeness during the act.

It was hard enough finding time and privacy for them to do anything, which sometimes led to snatched shags down dark lanes, trying to get the job done before the chill air numbed the desire. Considering their lack of opportunity, he never seemed as desperate for her as an on-heat teenager should have been. He wasn’t always grasping and fondling her or pulling her in for kisses. He waited until a chance presented itself and then without much preamble gave her a breathless seeing-to.

They just didn’t quite connect. Maybe they would have done if they had ever opened up about what they each wanted. He had once crawled naked over her lap, jokily asking to be punished. She had given him a few light smacks but too light-heartedly for it to go anywhere. Inwardly she had squirmed with the embarrassment of it all. If it had been the other way round, if he had dragged her over his lap and dealt a series of stinging slaps to her big bum, she was sure, despite never having received such treatment before, that she would have simply loved it.

Once, when the Spinster had gone to her sister’s for the night, they had actually had time to watch a bit of internet porn together before climbing into bed. They had looked at a few sites, jumping around a selection of video clips, their choices acting as unspoken demonstrations of what they each found appealing. She was surprised when he chose a short clip of a naked man bound with thick ropes and bent over, yelping as a corseted Mistress forced a strap-on into his rear end. Mimi had said something about how much of a fuss the man was making and if it had been the other way around the girl would have been expected to take it all without complaint.

‘Well, having a big one up the bum can hurt, as I’m sure you know!’ he had replied.

Actually, she didn’t know. She probably wanted to find out but for some reason she never had, although everyone seemed to be doing it these days. Plenty of girls told a different story, that it was a scintillating experience not to be missed. By the way he was talking, it sounded like he hadn’t missed it either. Another time, they had been indulging in some simultaneous oral with him on top, lapping at her bud whilst pressing a slender smooth vibrator into her puss. Only later, when she recalled how he had slightly wiggled his hips above her and pushed his behind back a little more, did she realise that he might actually have wanted the toy forced inside him. Basically, if both of them were displaying signs of submissiveness then it wasn’t going to work, and if he was bi-curious or trying to figure out if indeed he was gay she did not want to be fumbled around with while he made up his mind.

Relocating the secret picnic spot proved harder than she thought and Dominic didn’t help by getting exasperated. Eventually, when they did find it, he was typically underwhelmed. He seemed more distracted than usual, not really listening to anything she said. He hardly looked at her, more often glancing at his phone as if imploring it to receive some important message that would get him out of there. As ever he stuffed his food down as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, barely noticing the trouble she had gone to in preparing it.

She had made a point of only buttering the baguette, leaving the cut sections otherwise bare and wrapping the intended contents separately, since he was so fussy and was always changing his mind about what he did and didn’t like. She didn’t want to give him any excuse to moan. No matter how many hints she kept dropping about being alone and isolated he refused to pick up on them. When he started checking the time she knew he was planning to get out of there without giving her what she needed. As always she would be forced to initiate things, and that was irksome.

He was idly holding a piece of buttered baguette, silently aghast that there was no more ham to fill it, even though he had put half a sliced pig into his last one. She sidled over with a mischievous smile, curled her hand around the bread and ran it up and down the length in a wanking motion whilst telling him that the French stick reminded her of something. Having your penis compared to something crusty and yeasty is probably not every man’s dream but her suggestive hand action was enough to do the trick. She spotted his ever-lively prick stirring in his jeans and seized her chance before he could back out.

‘Looks like he wants some attention,’ she said.

The evidence seemed indisputable so he could do nothing except mumble something ineffectual like ‘not here’ whilst she ignored him and unzipped his jeans. She fumbled inside and gave a little gasp as his hot member was suddenly in her palm and growing against her. It was a feeling she could never tire of. She loved to clutch a stiffening prick and feel it swell in her grip. Sometimes you could even sense the pulsing rush of blood and the rise in temperature. For just a few brief moments it was to feel the essence of sexual power, of uncontrolled desire, and to know that it was aimed at you.

There was surely no greater compliment a cock could give you than to fill up in your grasp. As his had been constrained beneath tight briefs she got it in all its expanding glory. For just a few wonderful moments it seemed like it might go on growing for ever. She would have loved to feel it swell inside her, stretching her open and surging into her hole.

‘So, Dominic,’ she said, ‘what shall we do with this?’

She didn’t like calling him Dominic. She would prefer to shorten it but he simply would not allow such things. ‘Dom’ would have been less of a mouthful and it would certainly be nice to think of him as a Dom even if it was so far from his real character. He didn’t even have the gumption to tell her what he wanted done with his gripped prick. She teasingly stroked it up and down but he remained impassive, still clutching his section of buttered baguette as if eating more lunch was a far better option than doing anything sexual. Well, if he wanted some meat to fill his roll he would get it.

She prised the bread out of his hand and forced the split side of it around his shaft so that it nestled like a large sausage in a bun. He at least smiled at this. She was giggling saucily and grasping the bread, twisting it against his shaft and running it up and down, using it to gently masturbate him. She could see the smear of butter on his skin and she pictured him sliding into her tightest passage without warning, forcing her over the tree trunk and entering her and pushing relentlessly deep inside her. She could scream but no one would hear her, and he might just stuff her knickers into her mouth anyway. Even his slim cock would stretch and maybe even hurt her, but the butter would ensure his forward glide proved unstoppable …

He didn’t move. He let her continue her gentle tease but she was feeling full of lust, too much to not make this situation dirtier. She reached for the tube of mustard and squirted a thick line of it down his length to complete the hot dog. He was panting harder and his cheeks were colouring but still he kept his passion contained and didn’t force it upon her. She didn’t want a mouthful of hot mustard but she would have sucked him to his balls if he had ordered her to. With the bread disintegrating and his cock a smeared mess there was nothing else to do but give up and give herself to him.

She was desperate for him to rip off her clothes and force her over the tree trunk but he didn’t, so she had to do it herself. Her knickers came down with her pedal pushers and she kissed him breathlessly for just a few seconds before going forward over the trunk, to leave her chubby pale bottom sticking out for him. His former reluctance was gone because he was now in command. He held her hips and was inside her in no time, surprising them both with the sudden depth of his entry, helped both by the butter and her slickness.

He held her as he caught his breath and she felt an unfamiliar tingling warmth spread inside her. It gave her a rush in her belly and made her slightly panicky – just like a mouthful of hot curry can do – and then she realised it was the mustard singeing the delicate skin of her puss. She let out an ‘oh!’ at this unintentional S&M rudeness and wondered if his prick was burning too. As if in answer he gave her a sudden barrage of arse-slapping thrusts, grunting over and over as he bashed against her cheeky rump and had it dancing. He kept on going too, as if needing the rapid action to soothe his itch.

She was aware of the sun on her bare skin and the sound of birds chattering around them. She was used to outdoor sex but it still felt so rude to be doing it there in broad daylight. It seemed such a bestial act, surrounded by gentle nature. She tried to make herself squeal louder, to add to the risk of them being caught, but, even though she knew the chances were infinitesimal, she still couldn’t bring herself to increase her volume. She wanted to talk like a slut in one of those porno clips they had watched. His quick-fire, bum-splatting thrusts deserved it. Imagine having the courage to yell out like they did, to beg him to do you any way he wanted. If she could only do that she would get it in the bum for sure. She could plead for it. She could say, ‘Please stick that big cock in my ass!’ just like those horny porno girls did.

Imagine having the courage to reach back and pull your cheeks apart while you said it, to actually display your most private place to him, to cry out that you were dying to have him in your bum. She trembled at her own thoughts but he couldn’t read them. He continued to slam into her and it was just enough to take her over the edge before he juddered and came. She loved the hot hit of his ejaculation within her. She was so glad she was on the pill, even if it did compound her weight problem. The feel of him shooting inside her always heightened her own orgasm.

He slipped out and she stayed where she was, eyes closed, allowing the warmth of her climax to gently spread through her. While she was feeling so horny she didn’t mind her bare bottom being so exposed. It might even encourage him to go again and finish what he’d started. Maybe he would even try something new, like giving her a good hard spanking before he sank inside her once more.

There were rustlings from behind her and she imagined him searching the undergrowth for thin sticks to use as canes upon her defenceless rump. She had no clue how much it would hurt her but just to be used in such a fashion would surely outweigh any pain. She would take any sexual indignity from him at these moments, do anything he commanded. She didn’t care if he bit her arse, smacked her soft quim, covered her exposed skin in muck from the forest floor – anything to make her feel like a wanton slave.

She turned at last to see what he was doing. He was on his feet and facing her, looking at his phone. For one adrenalin-bursting moment she thought he was taking a picture of her plump bare bottom, but it transpired he was just looking for that same elusive message. His member had already been stored away and he was apparently done for the day. She felt suddenly foolish, bent over as she was, with him not even caring. She pulled her clothes back up and sat in silence while the burn in her cheek slowly subsided.

She packed up and they walked home again, with little said between them. A few days later and he was gone, off back to college. They didn’t talk much in the interim and he didn’t want to be dropped at the station, let alone to be waved goodbye. He didn’t even text to say he had made it there OK. She tried ringing him but got nothing. So that was that, she had been dumped.

Dominic remained the only hangover from the ‘Disappearing Youths’ story that never was, a reminder that everything about that so-called mystery was a damp squib. She latched onto the tale out of desperation, having had another local story crumble before she had even managed to move into the village. One of the reasons she so coveted a place there was Haydn Shady, an unlikely-named villain who had taken possession of a big property on some of the estate lands outside the village. He was a shady character indeed, suspected of extortion and fraud at the very least, plus kidnapping and murder if you believed the gossip. He seemed omnipotent although he was seldom spotted. He was large, with a completely shaved head, and he always wore sunglasses, the myth being that no one had ever seen his eyes.

The manor house he stayed in was originally leased from the aging Baron who owned nearly all the land around. Somehow, through threats it was believed, Shady had then managed to purchase the house outright, along with many acres. The original theory had been that he needed the privacy to oversee his nefarious business, and he needed the land to safely bury the bodies of his murdered enemies. Bit by bit he seemed to eat into the estate, purchasing parcels of land here and there so that many of the tenant farmers suddenly found themselves at the mercy of a new and far more ruthless landlord, one prepared to raise their rents without scruple.

All this was juicy enough gossip for any aspiring journalist, although it was a story most would fear to follow, given the reputation of the subject. The plot thickened when it transpired that a new road had been proposed, a bypass that would run through the estate lands. The old Baron would never consent to such a thing but he held only a small area that could still stop it from happening, and it seemed Mr Shady was more than happy to allow the purchase of his newly gained land for a whopping sum, far in excess of what had been paid for it.

Everyone waited with bated breath, sure that the villain would bully or threaten the poor Baron and get this remaining land. The new road would have seen the whole area ruined. Ancient woodland would be levelled. Noise and traffic pollution would increase, spoiling the general atmosphere for ever. Most of the farmers would be driven out and the village would die a slow death, peopled only by the commuters who may have silently been pleased with the faster routes onto major road networks. Mimi, following the story over the months and years as closely as she could from her flat in Oxford, decided that she couldn’t bear to see the area she so loved desecrated. This would be the cause to champion, the story that would show her mettle and talents and make her a heroine to the locals – who might reward her with a house there on the cheap.

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.

2

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 touchés, 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.

She was now not only slurping at the prick before her but going back and forth to those in her grasp to slap them hard around her face, a sure sign of her surging lust. Morgana had clearly made her desperate for these beautiful youthful erections. Even though the Priestess never allowed them inside her own body she knew the fevered longing they could inspire. She would have inspected the girl’s crotch closely, making sure the lips were pale and the surrounding skin porcelain-smooth and geisha-white. She knew nothing less than perfection would do. She would have spat upon the crotch, blown gently upon it, maybe even teased it with a flickering tongue-tip.

Then she would have got the girl on all fours and inspected her, telling her that her newly bleached holes were finally deserving of her Lord’s huge, unmatchable erect mentula. She would have sluiced the girl’s backside with a slick clear oil, perhaps holding a small vibrator to the girl’s pubis as she expelled, being careful not to let her come. Towards the evening, when the girl was squirming, she would have been plied with wine and given access to the Priestess’s potions. By this time she would be almost rabid with lust and would have to be handcuffed to ensure she didn’t ravage herself. As a final torture, the Priestess might well have had one of the many sex machines brought in so that she could straddle it and pummel her own cunnus at the highest speed, whilst the chained-up girl watched and drooled and shrieked in desperation for her turn.

Her insatiable appetite was currently showing no signs of abating. He ordered her to move along the line and he sensed her disappointment that this was the last of them. He could see why she had such carnal hunger. The pricks were fine specimens, no more than average size but all sleek and rock-hard, all with fine upward curves. He felt the saliva gather in his own mouth at his sudden urge to join her on his knees. The temptation was strong but momentary, and he quickly dismissed it from his mind as far too demeaning an act for someone whom these people worshipped as a deity.

Odd; he had once thought such cravings alien to him. Although he had always been in awe of his own body he had never thought it was from a general love of the male form. He initially only envisaged an order of lust-crazed females to worship him. However, the practices of his coven were based upon those of the Roman Bacchanalian cults, and the records declared that around 188 BC their most feted leader, the High Priestess Paculla Annia, had indeed ordained that men be admitted for the first time. Her orgies were considered incomplete without males present, all committing the lewdest sexual acts, mostly upon one another. Since Paculla Annia was now reborn and living amongst them, in the form of Morgana Innamorato, it seemed essential that he follow her original instructions.

Deeper research persuaded him that the Roman gods and richer mortals did indeed employ male slaves, and commonly used them for sexual purposes. However, they never took the passive role, which they saw as a specifically Greek habit. Such slaves, or catamites, were typically young. His searches were restricted to athletic youths in their very early twenties, or fresh out of college. He needed them virile, primarily gay so that they would lust after him as much as any female, but still horny enough to grow stiff and be used by Morgana’s girls when necessary.

His catamites were kept essentially as slaves, enjoying none of the privileges the girls had. They were there to do donkey work, to act as muscle, to bring authenticity to the orgies. Only after a while did he realise they could also be used for his gratification. Since he demanded of himself a daily minimum of three ejaculations, the boys came in handy when Morgana’s girls had been shut away for the night. He treated them roughly. The Romans frowned upon the thought of love between males. He certainly didn’t want them to feel like they were anything other than receptacles for his lust. But sometimes, when he was gripping those lithe thighs and pumping hard against their muscular buttocks, he thought he adored them every bit as much as the soft, marble-white rumps of his girls. The shame of it burned afterwards, a secret he could never allow to be discovered.

It posed a problem: what would he do with the boys when he was finished with them? They were hard to find and thus precious, but they couldn’t last for long. They would become loose and grotesque. Morgana had her treatments but none was a cure. He kept telling himself he would have to devise a way of dismissing them from his service without fear of them revealing the secrets of the Order. After all, they had been lured there and then locked up and used – what would prevent them from betraying his illegal practices, the kidnapping and enslaving, the secret lust for athletic male bodies? He already knew there was only one feasible answer.

The girl had done a marvellous job. The pricks were all still hard but the ones at the start of the line would not stay that way for long. It was time to move on to the ceremony proper. He had her get off her knees and recline upon the raised dais covered in cushions. He refilled his goblet with claret and crossed to her. She was allowed two mouthfuls of the wine in case she was dry from all her sucking, and to make room in the goblet. He topped it up with olive oil poured from a terracotta jug and then used his long index finger to mix the liquids together.

She was smiling and licking her lips although she had no clue what was to happen next. He had her lie back with her hips raised off the platform by a cushion. He spread her knees and saw the delicate lips of her bare puss. What beauty. There was no lewdness here, just a study in sweet, spotless perfection. He took the goat horn from beside the pewter claret jug. It was ringed at the large end with silver, but while other examples were also similarly tipped, his was cut so that the very end was missing, leaving a small opening. He pressed the tapered end onto her soft quim and she reached down to part the lips, allowing him to feed the horn inside her. She gasped and closed her eyes, although this meagre penetration would never be enough for her.

He tipped the contents of his goblet gradually into the horn, allowing the bright-red viscous liquid to drain inside her. She knew not to spill a drop. When his goblet was empty he handed her the small bowl of raspberries and instructed her to fill herself. She let out a gasp of pure lust and proceeded to do his bidding, holding herself open with the fingers of one hand and feeding the berries one by one inside her puss with the other, careful not to let the liquid inside her ooze out.

As she continued her task he stripped to the waist. Strange, he was always desirous that his catamites see his bare torso. Although he was twice their age he knew his stood up well in comparison. It was far larger than theirs and firm with muscle. The skin was still smooth and free of hair, just like theirs. It was a suitable body for a god, one that they would long to have pressed against them.

He released the slaves so that three could get on their knees and use their mouths to keep the other three hard. They all knew better than to coax an ejaculation. Doing so would lead to humiliating and most likely painful punishments. The sight of them going about their expert business was enough to ensure his prick was fully engorged when he released it. He so often fucked like this, with his chest bare, his black riding boots and animal-hide britches still in place, his cock and balls unleashed from the buttoned fly. He liked the way the still-fastened leggings framed his huge manhood, the dark background making it stand out even more. He liked how his tanned torso looked so sleek and firm under its sheen of sweat, particularly in the flickering light of a fire. And he specially liked the way that leaving his lower half covered made it all seem so impersonal, so full of urgency and free of tenderness.

He already had his hair tied back. Sometimes, if he was having a prolonged, wild fuck, he would free it from the band for effect, letting it drop back to his shoulders. His hair was jet-black and glossy, only slightly oily in appearance. It parted at the front to leave his large expanse of forehead bare, and flowed down either side of his face, framing it like curtains. Along with the goatee it created a swashbuckling look that pleased him. It was a good thick thatch for someone in his early forties and quite a change from what he was used to.

Until fairly recently he had been completely bald. He had been that way since his last days at university, when he had shaved it to mimic the Kurgan in his last, most frightening incarnation. It made him look brutish and ugly, especially with his cold eyes – but it made him feel even more powerful. People could barely stand in his presence; they all cowered around him. He realised his bald head, bony and white as a polished skull, was as good a calling card as any. His eyes were what had always marked him out but their effect was almost too shocking. They wouldn’t allow him to survive an identity parade. They needed to be used only when necessary, revealed at critical moments so as to have the same withering effect on his adversaries as if he had pulled out a gun.

He first shaved his head on the day he was ejected from university. He had celebrated his new look by punching a tutor to the ground for awarding a low mark to an essay he had put minimal effort into. He didn’t care about his expulsion. He had only gone to university to teach himself how to use his brain properly. He found that academic qualifications were just that: academic. He realised that there were better ways to make money than through kowtowing to the strictures of society. If university taught him anything it was that that the youngsters of today, and of any day, thirsted for more than knowledge. With the birth of rave culture and all-nighters, everyday youth wanted something more than a few beers down the pub. They wanted drugs, in great quantities. So he decided to make it his life’s work to give them exactly what they wanted. And he did far, far better out of it than they ever would.

Now he was safely within the confines his own realm the Ray-Bans could come off and the eyes could again be revealed to give him his full power. The way the girl regarded him showed her overwhelming desire to be put to his sword. Her eyes were fiery, wild, and her mouth was open in a wicked grin. She was in awe of all she surveyed as she busily stuffed herself with the raspberries. Some of the ooze inside her had already leaked and ran blood-red onto the cushion beneath her. He judged she was now full enough and bade her stop. He grasped his prick and moved slowly forward so that she knew what was coming. She breathed harder, gasping with the anticipation, parting her thighs even wider to welcome him in. Her fingers stayed at her crotch, ready to hold herself open to aid his penetration.

It was not his favourite position but it was the only way she could take him this first time. He guided the fat head of his prick up between her pale lips and saw an immediate trickle of her red juice upon it. As oily-wet as she was she still had to stretch herself apart as he pushed slowly forward. When the whole glans had been engulfed he steadied himself, grasping tightly under her hips to make sure she stayed exactly in position. He could feel that the mixture inside her was warm, so he knew she was ready. He then plunged inside her in one beautifully controlled thrust. It was slow at first, then built steadily into an unstoppable lunge, finishing with a loud wet slap as his balls and crotch met her soft opening.

Her wails increased as he drove into her, culminating in a shriek as he slammed home and forced the first burst of oily juice from inside her. He could feel the squash of fruit within, the tiny explosions as he filled her so suddenly and crushed the berries. He felt the splash on his belly and knew his balls would be dripping with the blood-red concoction. He saw the spatter shoot up her alabaster thighs, the oil making it cling to her skin before it gradually ran down.

He withdrew slowly so that she could witness his full length thickly covered in the gleaming claret mixture. Her eyes were wide and she was trembling with bliss. He drove home to the hilt once more. Another great splash of fruit juice shot up her inner thighs, leaving small lumps of the broken fruit upon her pristine white skin. She wasn’t just trembling now but shaking. It had to be the nastiest thing she had ever seen, and he knew she adored it.

He gave her several more thrusts until her cream started to take over and make the secretions too opaque to look like fresh blood. Then he withdrew and replaced her upon the dais. He manoeuvred her onto him and she was quick to impale herself once more, sliding down hard upon him to expel the remnants of the pulped fruit. She felt tight still, clenching his shaft as she eased herself up and down or rocked against him to press her swollen bud into his crotch. He grasped her plump bottom to aid her movements, squeezing the soft flesh as hard as possible. He hated skinny, bony arses. He hated huge, flabby arses too. They had to be just right, and this one was, which is why she had been initiated in the first place.

It was good to watch her with her head thrown back, those perky breasts bouncing up and down. He could eat those tiny, sugar-mice-pink nipples. In fact he just might. Everything about her was good enough to gulp down.

He put his arms around her and gently brought her down, arresting her bouncing movement. Her eyes had lost their fire and were glazed with ecstasy. He pulled her flat against him, still buried inside her. Her breasts squashed into him just above his belly and he could feel the hard points of her nipples pressing upon his muscle. He revelled in the fact that even tall girls like this still felt so small beside him. Her face was against his chest and she would be able to hear his heart pounding with divine passion.

She had forgotten all about the lads but now it was time to bring them into play. His hands went back down to her buttocks to squeeze them again and to ease them apart. Without even delving into her he could feel it was slippery from the oil enema that Morgana had earlier administered. He gave terse commands for the lads to stop their sucking and gather around him. They stood in a semicircle regarding her, all slowly stroking their erections and awaiting his command. He pointed to the eldest of the lads, the first he had brought under his wing.

‘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.

3

‘Turn around and show me your behind,’ Morgana said.

Mimi blinked mutely at her, totally taken aback. If she had had a million guesses she would not have picked those to be the first words this witch-woman would say to her. The sight of the crimson-haired beauty was disarming enough without this introduction. She seemed to have come directly from the set of some sexy horror movie entitled Stereotypically Gorgeous Vampire Witches with Sumptuous Milky-White Cleavages who Unfailingly Make Your Heart Stop, or something like that. Anyway, what did she mean by ‘show’? What, literally bare it for her, right here in front of the class? Mimi fleetingly thought about summoning up a joke but the woman was impatiently tapping one finger on the desk and didn’t look like she wanted to crack a smile.

Bizarrely, almost magically, Mimi found herself complying, turning to face the seated girls and bending forward from the waist until she was nearly forming a right angle. Incredibly, she even reached back and pulled up her top slightly, so the view of her bottom in tight jeans would not be impeded.

‘It is large, is it not? It sticks out,’ the woman observed, matter-of-factly.

Yes, I have got a fat backside, thank you very much. Glad you’ve brought that to the attention of the whole world, thought Mimi, her cheeks flushing as she saw the sadistic glee sweep the faces of her classmates. Miss Morgana didn’t seem at all perturbed by the embarrassment her brusque honesty was causing.

‘Are others drawn to it? Do your men like to finish upon it?’ she asked.

Finish upon it? Did she hear that right? Was there any way that could mean anything other than what it seemed to? Now Mimi was incredulous. As her eyebrows shot up, her mouth fell open, as if the two parts of her face were linked. Potential answers stopped short in her mouth, making it sound like she was panting erratically on her last breaths. Some kind of rebuttal seemed appropriate but how can any statement begin ‘I’ve never been so insulted’ when you’re voluntarily sticking your bottom out for a woman you first clapped eyes on about a minute before? Does a dignified reply actually exist when you are bent over in front of eight giggling fresh-faced females, all of them complete strangers, whilst being asked to comment on whether your male lovers like to come all over your fat bum?

‘Well, yes, they do seem to,’ was the answer she eventually mumbled.

‘It will always be large because of the jut,’ Morgana unfeelingly continued, actually prodding the proffered bottom a couple of times. ‘The firmness of the fat gives it good shape, at least, but it will dimple the surface texture and take away any smoothness. That will never do. Your bottom has great potential but is too much of a spread to be perfect. We need weight off your hips to accentuate the roundness of the buttocks, and greater muscle tone to compensate for the loss of fat. If we can keep the curve and eliminate sag you will find a great many more admirers, men and women, desperate to ravish you from behind.’

Mimi flushed even deeper red. She knew she had audibly gasped at the word ‘ravish’. Having been plainly informed that, should she join this class, the primary objective would be to make her bottom more desirable, she now didn’t know what to do or say. However, the woman had apparently not yet finished her appraisal, and was pressing gently at the small of Mimi’s back to keep her bent over.

‘Obviously society in general would always ridicule its size,’ Morgana was now saying, ‘but the lustful spirits of this world would adore it. And who cares for society’s approval? Of course, if you wished it to stay exactly as it is I could teach you a spell to make it irresistible to all who saw it, whatever its appearance. However, it is not an easy spell to perform. You have to mix an exact recipe based on heather honey and liquorice root to spread upon the skin. You must stay in the woods, naked by day, for two whole weeks, with the mixture upon your bottom, even within the crack. And the incantation will not work unless every inch of your behind is covered by insects feeding upon the honey, and that essentially requires a colony of bees or wasps. It can get a little, shall we say, stingy in the sensitive areas.’

The woman was now not just prodding the bottom under inspection but running her long black-painted nails lightly over the expanse of stretched denim as she talked of feeding insects. The grazing contact sent a shiver across Mimi’s skin and she knew her face might easily betray how much she was enjoying it. Despite this public humiliation she was glad she was still being bent over, and gladder still that the woman was doing all the talking.

‘There are downsides to having an irresistible bottom,’ Mimi was informed. ‘You may find the attention constant. You will be groped and pinched wherever you go. It will drive your admirers mad with lust. Certainly your lovers will want to plunder your tighter hole. It will undoubtedly become a focus of their penetrations.’

Well, when Mimi decided to get some background for a possible article on the supposed witch and her weight-loss plan, she had no idea the class would be so instantly revealing. Despite this contrived and frankly baffling rudeness, Miss Morgana was undeniably bewitching. As the pressure lifted from Mimi’s back and she found herself being slowly righted, she could easily see why the girls were sitting here so attentively.

‘You may join the class for a while,’ the witch said. ‘That desk at the back is free. What is your name?’

‘It is Mimi, Miss.’

Why had she called her ‘Miss’? She wasn’t in school now! Why did she feel so inferior to this beautiful but clearly unhinged woman? Why had she felt such a sudden and undeniably pleasurable twinge between her legs when this woman had squeezed her bottom?

‘Mimi? That is a very selfish name, is it not? Go and sit down then.’

Mimi automatically did as instructed, chastised and confused, her face colouring even more vividly than before. She was keenly aware that all eyes were on her, trying to get a view of the big bottom that had been the focus of the lesson so far. She would have loved to wiggle it defiantly at them but instead she rushed to hide it on the wooden seat behind her allotted desk. A selfish name? That comment had smarted, made her chest flutter with indignation. It’s not Me, Me, it’s Mimi – as in the heroine of La Bohème, her parents’ favourite opera. It was disconcerting to have this rebuke from the woman who had just been touching her with such tender familiarity.

Bizarrely, it seemed suddenly very important to Mimi that this bewitching female look fondly upon her. Glancing around the room she felt a sudden pang of envy, noting that she was quite probably the oldest of the girls, and not necessarily the prettiest. Even if her underlying motives were to potentially expose the woman as a charlatan witch, Mimi still strangely wanted to be her class favourite.

She had a sudden image of herself still at the front of the class, bent forward facing the girls. But she was naked this time, with her wrists tied to her ankles. In her mind’s eye Morgana was raking the taut skin on her bottom with those long nails, pinching the flesh hard, eliciting gasps from all, giving each peachy cheek a slap in turn. Then Mimi imagined the Witch’s grin spreading and the little slaps becoming a hail of stinging smacks that exploded upon her bottom. She pictured herself shrieking with the pain but taking it all, hurt by the spite of the woman, humiliated at being treated like this in front of the others, yet so proud that she had been chosen above all.

‘Are you listening?’

Mimi jumped in her seat, realising that the witch was sternly addressing her and that the other girls were once again stifling giggles at her expense. She blushed again and mumbled her apologies.

‘You had better get on the treadmill first, if you can’t even stay focused for two minutes.’

Once again Mimi found herself shrinking at Morgana’s chiding tone. She was confused and disorientated and stood hesitantly before following the woman’s eyes to the piece of gym apparatus in the corner. The class was being held at the rugby club buildings that had been built within the estate grounds by the new beneficent owner. She was familiar with the place, having been there a few times to support Dominic when he was playing for the First Team. This building was next to the refurbished changing rooms and was designed for after-match gatherings. Next door was the well-kitted gym, although the only piece of apparatus this Fat Club had seen fit to drag through for its use was the single treadmill Mimi was now standing upon.

The witch set it in motion and Mimi, with her back to the girls, started off at no more than a gentle jog. She was still very conscious of the movement of her rear end, and that all eyes would be upon it. Having put her to her exercise, her teacher now apparently forgot her.

‘The potion I will teach you today is to enliven the cōleī,’ Morgana was saying. ‘When ingested it increases their output threefold and their power tenfold.’

There were gasps and more giggles from the girls. Mimi didn’t know if this cōleī was a muscle or perhaps some kind of fat-busting cell of the digestive system, or indeed why its mention created such mirth. She rather suspected the girls were laughing at her wobbling bottom, now that she was beginning to struggle with the pace of the treadmill. Morgana remained uninterested in her, focusing instead on the importance of first mixing the basil with the clove before burning the candle exactly half-way down and adding three drops of wax to the potion. Mimi tried to listen but she was flagging and sure the treadmill was speeding up of its own accord. The witch’s list of unknown roots and leaves, and the odd ways they had to be added, all became too much for her to digest. However, the thought of losing weight just by drinking some herbal brews certainly seemed preferable to this enforced exercise.

‘You are slowing down.’

Suddenly the witch’s voice was behind her, startlingly close. Mimi felt ridiculous that she was so jumpy and so apparently incapable of keeping up the gentlest of exercises. She started to put in more effort but decided she’d had enough humiliation for one day and announced that she wanted to stop. The splat on her backside was immediate, so unexpected and sharp it took a couple of seconds to register its sting. Mimi looked back in panic, forced to continue on the treadmill or go flying off the back into a graceless heap. The witch was holding a flat paddle made of black leather, conjured apparently from nowhere. She had smacked Mimi’s arse!

‘Stopping won’t get your hips any firmer! Do you want more?’

Mimi didn’t know what to say. The sting had been sharp but the thought that she could be publicly beaten by this woman somehow seemed to outweigh the dread of pain. She redoubled her efforts in silence, but Morgana was not placated and stayed put, ready to deal more blows of encouragement. It seemed ridiculous. First there was talk of weight-loss by drinking potions, now exercise enforced by flogging. Mimi started to pipe up but as soon as she did another slap landed and she was ordered to concentrate. This second blow was worse. Not because it was sharper, but because Mimi had squealed at the impact. Not screeched or shouted, but squealed, like she had enjoyed it.

Her legs were spent now and she wanted to turn and tell the witch to leave her alone, but her head was jumbled and her face was burning with the exertion and the embarrassment of her situation. She couldn’t get off with any dignity unless the machine was first stopped for her, so she just had to go on. It quickly became a cycle: trying to keep up, then flagging, then getting a cheek-wobbling smack that enlivened her again. She was being spanked, genuinely, for the first time in her life.

It was terrible and the panic was rushing through her, but her puss was getting so, so hot. She had the sudden thought that the woman had somehow read her mind, seen her fantasy of being beaten upon the bum. As Mimi sobbed and gibbered the girls openly laughed. The pace seemed to be getting faster all the time, although no one was touching the machine. Her leg muscles were burning as much as her rump, but still she went on, desperate for it to stop but unable to make this happen, perhaps not even wanting it to end.

She was on the point of collapse but the slaps were coming one after another, across both cheeks, driving her on. The pain was almost indiscernible now that her bottom was so numb, but the heat between her legs was ever more noticeable. She was so het up that she thought for one terrible moment she was actually going to climax uncontrollably from her panic and humiliation, right there in front of the class. Then suddenly the treadmill was slowing to a stop. She got off it but still held onto it for support, bent forward with exhaustion.

The tears were still on her flushed cheeks. Her mouth was open and a thin thread of viscous saliva was dangling from her lips. She was shaking. Her head wouldn’t clear and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t need to. The witch moved in to her, so close she felt the crotch at her throbbing bottom and the breasts squashing against her back. She felt an arm come around her waist, a sneaky move on the blind side of the girls, the hand slipping down to jam between her thighs. One finger buried itself in her crotch and pressed hard, magically finding her clit as it pulsed against the constraining denim. She almost collapsed but the woman held her up.

She could feel breath in her ear. The witch was going to say something comforting to her, something loving. That’s what happened in her fantasies. Miss Morgana would whisper that it was all right to be turned on by torture and public sexual humiliation. She would say something to the watching girls that made this whole bizarre episode OK. She would absolve Mimi of any guilt, explaining the squeals as something other than the joy of being openly spanked.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.