Willow Sears - Witch Hunter

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.