Willow Sears - Witch Hunter

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.

‘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.