A Witch's Tale

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WRJames
WRJames
44 Followers

I was caught by a wave once, swimming, and nearly drowned before I could recover. At least the water was not sticky, not thick as glue. It went up into my nose, and I sneezed it back out, covering my face and the boy's belly with white cream.

I must have caught him with my teeth as I sneezed, because he gave out a yelp of pain, like a dog whose paw had been stepped on, and drew back, rubbing himself, checking, perhaps, to see if he was now bleeding there also.

It was my mother's turn to laugh, so hard that she in turn created her own little muddy puddle in the meadow. At least she had the good sense not to sit down in it.

"Do you have a name, boy?" she asked when she had calmed down enough to speak.

"You know that I have a name. You know also that I will not reveal it to you."

"Well, then, we must create one for you. How about Speedy? That seems to fit you."

"We will call him Gus," I said. "That's short for Gusher."

"Gus it is then," my mother said.

Gus was staring down morosely at how his capacity for defloration had been disabled, at least for the moment. At some point later in my life I might have taken action to reinvigorate him, with a caress of his testicles, perhaps a finger up his anus to find the prostate.

What, do I shock you? Would it surprise you that I have learned all the secrets of the body, both for pleasure and for pain? Would you be shocked to know that the crude torments our captors have devised are pitiful in comparison to my capabilities? Yes, I know, this seems like idle boasting for one whose limbs are shackled to a dungeon wall, for one who is progressing from rape and torture to imminent immolation. Ah, but if our roles were reversed, I could show those clumsy morons a thing or two. Well, enough of this idle boasting. I will return to my tale.

Out of nowhere, there was a clap of thunder. The sun, which had been attempting bravely to penetrate the gloom cast by that vast stone wall, vanished abruptly and it, began to rain. Within seconds, we were in the middle of a downpour. In a way, it was a blessing. The rain washed away the mud and various bodily secretions that were encrusting me. However, it was very cold and the broad meadow was quickly turning into a mud bottomed pond. Instinctively, the boy ran for the shelter of the walls and we ran after him. So we came together, gasping for breath, into the great courtyard of the temple. It was empty, cold and desolate as the field on the other side of that great wall and just as rain swept. At least the floor was stone instead of mud. I watched as the rain washed away the clay that had encased my feet. Then I realized that my mother and the boy had retreated into an esplanade that ringed the central court.

At the other end, there was a series of steps arranged to make a low pyramid. On the top a stone table, waist high, just the size of a small bed. My thoughts turned again to virgins and the rites of midsummer, and I shuddered.

"Where are the others?" It was my mother who asked. Some instinct told her that these walls were empty, that they had been empty for some time. I could see the confusion in her face, terror even. "Nathan, Aaron, Joshua."

I had not realized that those large, strange men had names or that my mother had any feelings for them other than pure, animal desire.

"They are absent, for the moment." The boy stated the obvious with a smug lack of concern.

"Absent?" My mother's concern had turned to anger. "They summoned us here, and they are absent?"

"There was a matter that they had to attend to, a matter of some urgency."

"All of them?" My mother gave the boy a look that would have withered one of the peasants. In fact, the situation was continuing to wither one particular part of the boy. He hid that by closing his robe again.

"All of them," he answered, evasively. I began to suspect that "all" was not a very large number, perhaps little more than the three my mother had named. "I have remained," he drew himself up to some semblance of dignity, "to perform the ceremony."

"You are capable?" My mother gave him a look that was more than sceptical.

"Do you know what the ceremony consists of?" The boy asked this with an imperious air that gave some hint of the man he might become some day.

"No," my mother admitted reluctantly, "not exactly."

"Exactly," the boy echoed the word with a drawl. "Then how can you assess my capability?"

The boy was smugly triumphant in the superiority of his logic but my mother was having none of it.

"Are you capable of providing us with food and shelter? Maybe some place where we can have a nice long shit and a hot bath?"

The boy winced a little, at her bluntness. "Which order would you prefer?" My mother gave him a scowl.

"Very well then."

He motioned us through a door into a room which was unfamiliar to me. There was a trough along one wall, with water trickling along it. He urinated into it. Beyond that there were stalls, like a miniature stable, and within each stall an open hole. My mother squatted down above one of the holes and began to defecate. There was no door to shield her from the boy's eyes, or from mine. I went into the next stall to spare her more public humiliation, although I must admit there was an unsettling fascination to it. Such a common, everyday event, and yet one we cannot see ourselves perform and we rarely witness others. It was good that I had observed her, for I had never before encountered one of these miserable squat toilets. Even the crudest peasant in our village had some sort of proper latrine, a seat with a convenient hole, or a chamber pot. I truly felt like an animal, squatting in the stable and I wondered fleetingly if these accommodations were reserved for special guests. It did not help that the boy was staring at me intently. Defiantly, I produced a thin stream of urine, a couple of small, hard turds. Then he had moved in next to me, towering over me and he was once again pressing his phallus against my lips.

I cannot explain why I put up no resistance. I could have bitten, I could have reach up to strike or rake his testicles, I could have screamed. I could, at least, have made a murmur of protest. Instead, I let my mouth open to receive him. I squatted there, still straining to clear my bowels, savouring the taste of his flesh. He was not moving, he was barely erect, but I could feel his belly straining. I did not understand, but then, too late, I did. He managed to squeeze out a few drops of urine, into my throat. It was, it appeared, harder to do than he had imagined. He was gasping at the effort. And I, I calmly swallowed it. He withdrew then, and slapped me hard, on the side of my head, making an ear ring, and I began to weep.

"There was no need for that." It was my mother, standing behind him. I had no idea how much of my humiliation she had observed.

"Who are you to judge what is needful?" The boy began to urinate again, this time into my eyes, and my bowels emptied themselves in a smelly rush that drove the other two away for the moment. There was a pail of water and a sponge to clean up with, barely enough water for the soiling I had done to myself and what had been done to me. I emerged to find my mother bent over a low stone counter, weeping silently, the boy standing behind her pressed tight against her. There was no sign of his penis. It was buried somehow within her flesh. Her lower lips were lying wide open between his legs, as if they had been ravished and then abandoned. He had that look of concentration on his face. I could tell that he was attempting to urinate again.

"Stop that!" I snapped, and I gave him a slap along his rump that left a dark red welt.

"Leave my mother alone!"

"You are prepared to replace her?" He was upon me in an instant. He hit me with his fist, right in my stomach and as I was gasping to regain my breath he had pressed me down next to my mother.

"Stop that!" It was her turn to object, as she saw him preparing to impale me. She grabbed one of his arms but he brushed her away, tossing her to the other side of the room with an alarmingly casual strength. I had never calculated just how terrifying those huge gaunt strangers might be, the ones who had come to my mother's bed. It was clear enough this boy could do anything he wanted to us. It was like dealing with a force of nature, with a god.

"You will spoil her for your sacred ceremony." My mother's voice was coming from behind me, wan and distant. I tried to peek back through the legs of my tormentor, but I could not see her. All I could see was a phallus that seemed to be swelling to an improbable size.

"She only needs an intact hymen," he growled. "No one ever said anything about her anus."

"You will injure her. You are too large."

"What, too large?" he snorted. "The elders are a lot bigger than I am. They've never injured me."

I wondered then, if all the things that he had been doing to us, or attempting to do, had been done to him. I imagined him replacing my mother in some of the tableaux that I had witnessed and I almost had a moment of sympathy for him. It vanished in a burst of incredible pain as he tried to force his way into my bowels.

"Wait," my mother was babbling in terror and concern. "She is not prepared. She has not been trained."

"Not trained? You brought her here not trained?" His pressure on me vanished. There was the sound of a slap, hard bone on flesh and then my mother sobbing.

"It will be your guilt, then, as you witness her discomfort. Will you scream a little?" That last was addressed to me, punctuated with a bony finger poked into the flesh that had failed to open for him. "Just to entertain your mother?"

"At least let me prepare her." It was my mother's voice again. "A few moments, at least?"

"Very well."

For a moment, there was only a cold draft. Then I felt silky hair against my spine, soft hands pulling apart my cheeks, lips kissing, closer and closer to the center. Then the firm hot roughness of a tongue. My mother was licking my anus. She was coaxing her tongue within me.

It was the ultimate humiliation. I was not even particularly clean. But she was delicate, her tongue was cunning, and my flesh responded of its own volition. All the fear, all the pain, all the degradation, only made my climax that much more profound.

The boy's laughter was like the rustle of dry leaves. "What a charming display of maternal devotion." After a pause, he added, "Perhaps we should have some breakfast."

"I think I've lost my appetite." My mother had moved to make way for him but he seemed to have lost interest in me, at least for the moment.

"I'm hungry," I volunteered, as I dared to turn to sit on the bench, facing the two of them. It was true. I had emptied my guts so completely that they were complaining. The orgasm had filled me with a dreamy sense of well being. "I think I'd like that hot bath first." To say that I was dirty was an understatement. Defiled would have described it better. I felt defiled, drained, and utterly content. It was the first time in my life that I had achieved that state. I knew then, perhaps, how my mother felt after her nights of dark commerce.

"A hot bath?" He echoed the phrase with some amusement.

"Didn't you promise us a nice hot bath?"

"You mother requested it. Well, we will see what can be provided. Come."

He motioned us over to a sort of trough cut into the floor. "Stand here." He removed his robe completely, it had been hanging open all this time, and came between us, gripping each of us around the waist. He pushed a button on the floor and a torrent of icy water came cascading down upon us. It must have lasted for several minutes. I was screaming the whole time. When it was over, we were very clean and very cold. There were no towels, no robes, other than his. My teeth were chattering. I was covered in goose bumps. I started to cry again but my mother gave me a little slap.

"Don't encourage him," she whispered. So I drew myself up as straight and tall as I could, took a deep breath, and followed him into the next room.

There was, thankfully, a fire there, and a hot sweet beverage, boiled eggs, soft bread and thick rich butter and honey. I do not think I had ever been so greedy in my haste to eat and drink. Too late, I realized that the beverage was not as innocent as it had seemed. I started to giggle uncontrollably. Then I was burying my head in my hands, drifting off to sleep.

When I awoke, I was strapped to the stone bed at the end of the courtyard. The sun was shining almost directly overhead, as high as it would ever go into our sky. I had thought, for some reason, that the rites of midsummer would occur at dawn, that we had somehow avoided them by the tardiness of our arrival. Now I realized, too late, that noon might be an equally appropriate time. I had, perhaps, been lying in the sun for quite some time. My throat was parched, and although I could not free my hands to tell for sure, I suspected that my skin was burning. What had awakened me, though, was a pain to my chest. Something obscured the sun, there was the sound of leather on flesh and the pain erupted again. It occurred to me, dimly, that I was being flogged.

It took me several more lashes to sort out my circumstances. I was still somewhat dizzy from the drink, from fatigue, from the way my body had been drained and sated earlier that morning. My hands were bound above my head. There was something cutting into my belly, a leather strap, perhaps and my knees were drawn up and bound beneath it also. My hair was tied somehow behind me so that I could not raise up my head. I could wave my feet up in the air but that was about it. I was not gagged though. There was no attempt to restrain my screams.

With great effort, tearing out more than a few strands of hair, I raised my head enough to be able to peer through my bleeding breasts to get a glimpse of my tormentor. At the base of the table, or altar, for such it was, there was a figure from nightmare, hooded and cloaked in black, wielding a crop like the ones the peasants used to urge on their donkeys. It seemed so far away, but then it came closer with impossible speed. I saw it descend, I heard the dull slap, and the pain exploded again as it ravaged a nipple. I closed my eyes then, but I could not shut off my hearing. Another slap, and this time it was my lower lips that bore the pain. The pattern of the lashing altered then -- soft little flicks, almost like caresses, then every tenth stroke or so, another sharp slap. Right nipple, left nipple, clitoris, over and over again. I was starting to look forward to those slaps. I was starting to wish they would come more frequently. Then just on the clitoris, soft, hard, soft, hard, then harder, harder ... and I screamed again, but not in pain.

"She is ready?" It was the voice of the boy. There was no answer, none needed, perhaps. The sun was shaded, his weight was on top of me, and then he was within me. If there was any pain associated to the loss of my virginity, it was masked by all that had come before. There was the crack of leather on flesh once again but this time no pain. The boy gasped though, more in satisfaction than in pain. One more crack of the whip, a great shuddering convulsion in the body above me and it was over. The boy was gone, and the hooded figure was forcing some cold sweet liquid down my throat. Then I fell asleep once again.

I awoke once more, back in the room where we had broken fast, sitting in a comfortable chair by the fire. Smells of roast meat were drifting in from the kitchen. I thought for a moment that my noontime ordeal had merely been a nightmare. But my skin was raw, sticky with salve. Where it was not covered with welts it was sunburned.

"How are you feeling?" It was my mother's voice. I saw that she had at last acquired some clothing, one of the gray robes that those strange men wore, so large on her that the sleeves were almost hanging to the floor. She had it opened though, so that her breasts and groin were exposed. I began to suspect that our kind were not allowed to cover themselves in the presence of those men. Always naked, always available, slaves to their every whim ... it was no wonder that we lived apart from them. A day or two of that at a time would be more than enough.

The boy came into the room. He did not look good. He looked many years older than when we had arrived, drawn and pale, withered somehow. There were lines in his face that should not have graced one so young. He was bearing a huge roast, on an immense silver platter. He seemed to be staggering a bit beneath the weight of it all but he managed to deposit it on the table.

The three of us then proceeded to dine. Rather, we tore into that roast flesh with a savage intensity. No plates, no silverware, just bare hands, bare bodies even since my mother had shed her robe to free her herself from the encumbrance of its sleeves and I had never managed to acquire clothing. The meat was sweet, tender, extremely rich, with a just a hint of a gamy tang, almost like a duck but much too large and boneless.

"What is it?" I paused at last to ask.

"Unicorn," the boy replied without a trace of humour. I nearly regurgitated everything that I had just consumed.

"It's boar," my mother assured me, and I believed her. The wild boars were almost as rare as the mythical unicorns. When they were slain, the meat was reserved for the nobility. So I believed her and gorged myself to satiation. But I have dined on wild boar since. It was not the same. I have never tasted a meal like that before or since.

Night was coming. My mother announced that it was time for us to depart. The boy was looking at us with a trace of longing but it seemed quite obvious his body had exhausted its capacity for pleasure. The meat had been a little salty, it had made us thirsty and we had quelled that thirst with several cups of cool, sweet, intoxicating beverage. We were staggering a bit as we emerged back onto that barren lawn. My mother pursed her lips to give the mysterious call that would summon our rides back home. Nothing happened. She collapsed in a fit of giggles. I was beginning to wonder if we would be stranded. But she gathered herself together and managed to give the call properly. We waited anxiously for a few moments, as nothing happened. We began to worry that we were too close to the great stone walls. Perhaps it had been the building, not the dawn that had spooked our steeds the morning before. She tried to issue the call again but could not. Her lips and tongue were numb and not cooperating. I began to panic, as much as I could panic in my state of exhaustion and inebriation. Then, just as despair was about to settle in, as we were contemplating the impossibility of returning home on foot, the night mares came out onto the open field.

If they had been proud and defiant before, that bravery was lost in the vicinity of those dark, sinister walls. It was all we could do to calm them enough to mount them. And, of course, what the night before had been a simple spring onto their backs was now an agonizing struggle, grasping a thick knotted mane and dragging myself onto that broad back. I wondered, belatedly, if I was going to be able to hang on in my weakened condition but it was too late. We were in motion at the same frantic pace as the night before.

I do not remember too much of that ride, except that at one point when we were flying high above the valley I vomited most of my dinner out into the void. Then, mercifully, we were back at the same moist meadow where we had departed, the moon was shining brightly and we were staggering back home.

"Well," my mother said, "what did you think? Did you have a good time?"

I found myself replying that I had. We started to sing, not quite in unison, not quite in harmony, some bawdy ballad my mother had learned in one of her money making ventures into the village.

WRJames
WRJames
44 Followers
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AmitdankevinAmitdankevinover 13 years ago

That was a good story. I did not get it in the beginning, but slowly I got everything right. Good Luck for contest.

laura57laura57over 13 years ago
WR. St. James has outdone himself again with "A Witch's Tale!!!!"

For those of you who love a good horror/fantasy with its erotic twists that this story " Witch's Tale' promises to be, it gets even better. I have had the pleasure of reading the complete novel and thoroughly enjoyed it. Can't get enough of the story, you can hop over directly to the publisher's site [www.club.lighthousepublishing.com] and purchase it there. You'll be glad you did. WR St.James has outdone himself again with this novel, and if you love his other works, then you definitely don't want to miss this one...

TLDavison

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