Witch Hunter

‘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.