Witch Hunter

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.