The Reawakening of a Witch

My name is Sarah Temple. I want you to know, as I write this down, that I never intended for any of this to happen. I never sought any of this. It was curiosity, and an innocent curiosity at that. I also want to preface everything by saying that I don't consider myself a gullible individual, and nor do I think of myself as believing in anything remotely supernatural. I have always been an atheist, and the concept of witchcraft or magic, has always been, again to me, long since replaced by more learned science.

The fiction, however, of the occult has always been a fascination of mine. I love nothing more than reading a horror story or listening to a podcast where believers share their scary stories of their encounters with those who now dwell beyond the veil. The unexplained footsteps that cross the hall, objects seemingly moving of their own volition, or even a haunting apparition are a fascination of mine. There has always been, of course, a rational explanation for all of these. Tiredness, infra-sound, carbon monoxide, or a straight up flight of fancy, for example.

It is also pertinent to this story to say that I have also, always been interested in my family history. Following back through my ancestors to find out their past has also been a keen interest in mine. I have successfully traced my roots back into the early 1600s. It is discovering my early ancestors here that have forever changed my life.

I write this with doubts that you, the reader, will believe this story. But I must insist on the veracity of my tale. From the mundane to the more lurid detail. For further context, know that I am in my mid-forties, and a professor at a rather well-known and highly esteemed university here in England. I will not say of which I call my employer. I can, of course, paint for you the picture of centuries old brickwork, statues of old academics looking down upon the students as they follow the signs to keep off of the perfectly maintained grass courtyards. Old offices with mahogany tables where older, mostly white men, sit upon leather armchairs. Old English academia.

I am married to a wonderful husband, who was unconventional enough to take my surname, and is a couple of years my junior. Together we have one daughter. She is my pride and joy, although she insists on getting married young, at the mere age of 20. Of course she is old enough to do so, and is her own woman, but it feels that to marry at her age is foolish. At her age there is still so much life yet to live, so much experience yet to be had, that to commit herself to the one man for the rest of her life seems so restrictive.

These days, however, when I think upon my daughter my mind is taken elsewhere. I feel myself day dreaming of what lies beneath her clothes. Of her youthful naked body. Of those breasts that have yet to feel the sag of age. Of needing to taste between her legs, and making her body writhe with pleasure. Of imagining my husband, his manhood long and hard, sliding inside her. Of her tongue pleasing me, as the three of us make love.

I am sorry. These days I cannot control my desires. I can feel my own arousal so strong now. I type with one hand as my other slides down to touch my wetness.

This was not always me. As I alluded to, this began by finding my past. My own history has changed my present.

Half a year ago, I made contact with a collector of antiquities whilst following a lead on an ancestor of mine, named Elizabeth. Coincidentally, the name I also gave my daughter. She had married a man, named Charles some 20 years her junior, and at the age of 40 had given birth to a boy they had also named Charles. If I were to tell you my husband's name was Charles, I am sure you would just shrug your shoulders and see no significance in the coincidence. As, of course, neither did I.

This collector, a wonderful old gentleman by the name of Geoffrey, had a box that had come into his possession amongst a wider collection of artifacts from the Witchfinders of the 1600s. Of note to me, is that it bore my ancestors name: Elizabeth Temple. I am fortunate to be of such position that the amount that this collector asked of me to pay was well within my means.

I was only expecting this to be a curious keepsake, a momento of time long ago. I was not expecting there to be what I found hidden within a secret compartment in the lid. The wooden box was old, and sadly not as pristine as I was led to believe by the collector. The lighting in the photos Geoffrey had sent to me had led me to have a false impression of what it was really like. It was a dull brown, almost black in parts. The hinges had been restored by Geoffrey, but were still stiff to open. I handled the thing with latex gloves on my hands, careful not to let the oil from my fingers harm it in anyway. It was, after all, an antique.

Due to its disappointingly poor condition, I made the decision to clean it myself. Working carefully away with nothing more than a cotton-bud and a very light detergent I began the slow process. It was during this that I discovered the hidden and surprisingly still working mechanism hidden in the carved styled decoration of the outside of the box, and led me to find the old letter that would change everything.

I was excited to open it to find a letter from hundreds of years ago. How it had not decayed into dust, I did not know. It was titled, the Confession of Witchfinder Charles Temple Stalworth. My first thought was, naturally, that this was the writings of my ancestor Elizabeth Temple's son Charles, or maybe even her husband. I was wrong of course. For Charles Temple Stalworth was Elizabeth's father. The letter will, as I shall shortly disclose, make that clear. At this stage, you will understand that there are now three generations with the name Charles. Elizabeth's father, her husband, and her son.

When I read this letter the first time, I went from fascination at such a find, to horror at its content, and then, to my eternal shame, such arousal that I still remember my fevered fingers playing with myself until I climaxed, gasping whilst flushed at the debauchery within. I will include now the content of the letter, of which i have taken the liberty to bring further up to date to ease the understanding:

--

The Confession of Witchfinder Charles Temple Stalworth

This is my final letter, for which I confess all of my sins to you. The gallows await, and I can only hope that in putting my numerous discretions to paper, that I shall forestall the almighty judgement and be spared the fires of eternal damnation.

I have always been a pious man, and I have taken my duties as a witchfinder with a stone-faced determination. I have personally found and given justice to 19 witches across Oxfordshire, and helped deliver deserved peace to many a disturbed village.

My downfall began when it was that I returned home last year after nine months abroad, I did hear from Edward Liston, the son of the blacksmith, that he believed my own wife to be a witch. My first confession is that it was, as I was accused and tried for, I who murdered the poor boy. After it was that I fell into sin, it became apparent that I needed to silence him to prevent what he knew from being spread around. I caved his skull in, and buried him out in the woods outside the town where he was later found. This is all in the records in the courts, but if I must confess I must confess to all.

I had not been home for more than an hour, before Edward had spoken to me in confidentiality. Reporting to me my wife, Sarah, and my daughter, Elizabeth, were witches. The evidence was that he had seen them both walk into the woods together, and that evening, a neighbour had fallen ill. Further, he swore that he had seen Elizabeth consortium with a familiar, a black cat.

Evidence I had heard of before, in my duties as a witchfinder. It concerned me, and I promised the boy I would look into it. I paid him for his sworn silence, and continued home.

I was concerned at how odd I found my home. In returning to the master bedroom, I found myself oddly of the feeling that it had been unused for some time. There was a closeness of my wife and daughter that felt peculiar. I saw once them holding hands in a way that felt too intimate.

The two of them were so alike. Both dark haired and beautiful. My daughter had turned 20 in my absence, becoming a striking young woman, and now carried herself with a confidence that was not there when I had left.

My duties off course had taught me what to look for, and I did suspect my darling Sarah firstly. She exhibited signs that you did notice after experience in such things. An unnatural willingness to talk back, to assert dominance over a man, and to do so in bed as well. The first time we had slept together as husband and a wife after my return I had been surprised at how she had taken the lead. Straddling me as if I were a stallion she wished to tame.

I felt it still was necessary to observe my Sarah further, before I told anyone of my suspicion. My reputation would be tarnished should anyone even suggest that my own wife was consortium with the devil himself. When naked alone, I looked for the devil's marks. The small contusions upon the skin that showed the contract with Lucifer. Even when I had observed them, I did not believe what I found. Nor did I act when I found the decapitated head of our neighbours Cockerel buried in a shallow grave in our flower bed the day after the old man had fallen sick. I just could not believe it. I beg for forgiveness for not acting upon these tinding. But it was love. Love can make a fool of any man.

I awoke in the early hours to find my bed empty. My Sarah was not there. Something held my tongue, and I did not call out. Instead I crept silently from our marital bed, and out into the hall. It was dark, and I did not light a candle for there was a light emanating from Elizabeth's door. Still I did not speak, instead I felt myself drawn towards it by some unknown, and now I believe, malevolent force.

I crept to the door way, and looked in. There, lit by single flickering candle on my daughter's bedside table, I saw both Sarah and Elizabeth. They were both naked. My wife was kissing our daughter, their lips locked together passionately. I must have gasped, but if they heard me, neither reacted. Sarah lay underneath Elizabeth, their breasts were pressed against each other. Their thighs were between each others legs, and as their bodies moved, I saw them rubbing their womanly parts against their legs.

They made such beautiful sweet sounds, small gasps and moans, as they made love. I remember vividly that image. My wife is a comely woman, of average height, with a motherly figure that I must confess still stirs me, especially when she is naked and her large full breasts are on display. Her eyes are emerald green. Elizabeth is ever so much like her mother. Green eyes and dark hair. Her smile so much alike. I knew her breasts were smaller, but now I saw them. She was engaged to marry the butcher's son, but now as I watched my daughter kiss down to bite and tears and kiss my wife's nipples, I confess that I felt jealousy.

I was jealous that that young oaf would get to sample such perfect a young body as my Elizabeth. My wife let out the gasps I recognised from our own lovemaking, her hands tangling in Elizabeth's long dark hair, as my daughter continued kissing downwards, across my wife's soft skin.

I knew I should condemn them for being hateful sinners. This was witchcraft I knew. This was a devil's ritual. But what I felt was something different. I was hardened. God forgive me, but I pulled myself from out of night clothes. I watched from the doorway as my daughter began pleasing my wife with her mouth, my Sarah's hands in Elizabeth's hair, her back arching off of the bed in such a pleasing way, her breasts topped with hard nipples. And all the time, I stroked myself, sinning as I gave in to the pleasure of that horrific sinful act.

I recognised the noises that my wife was waking. Recognised the incoming cascade of pleasure that she was about to feel. The climax of the act. Elizabeth's hand was moving back and forth. I could not see from my position, but I knew what was happening. Whilst my daughter's tongue was busy pressing against the bud above her mother's most sacred place, her fingers were busy thrusting inside. I was too much to bear of course. Sarah's hand covered her mouth as she held back the screams of pleasure.

I myself, could feel myself close. I felt like a young man, my manhood strong and firm, the familiar feeling building up within me. When the two of them sat up, body bodies glistening in the candlelight, they embraced and kissed once more in a way that no mother and daughter should ever kiss. My daughter's beautiful body, a young woman's body, was now properly visible. Sarah's hands pushed down between Elizabeth's legs, and I heard the most sweet gasp of joy at the touch escape my daughter's lips. Watching my wife from my position in the dark hallway, pleasuring my daughter as they kissed naked on the bed was too much for me.

I felt myself having my own climax, the sinful act coming to a conclusion, as I spilled my seed on the wood of the corridor. Such a feeling I cannot explain. I fled, ashamed, back to my bedroom. My mind was reeling. My wife and daughter were obviously both witches. I had witnessed an act of satanic worship. Carnal lust between mother and daughter. I knew what I should do. I should report them to the magistrates.

But, I am weak. I am only a human. Moreover, I believe that I had been affected by a witch's spell of some kind. What else could explain how I had enjoyed my voyeurism. I had committed the sin of onanism at the time.

I was wrestling with these feelings, still awake, when what must have been an hour later, my Sarah returned to bed. I felt her naked body press up against me. I felt her hand push down my chest and into my night clothes. No words were shared as her hand found my manhood and began to stroke. God help me, but I felt myself rise.

I mounted my wife, and kissed her hard as I felt her beautiful wetness envelop me. I was a young man again. I had the stamina to do so again, where before it would have been sometimes even a few days before I was prepared for the act a second time. I was not gentle with her. I did not care to be quiet. The bedframe shook and thunder against the wall as I thrust into my wife. She squealed, gasping as I took her. My kiss was hard as well, pushing against her, and biting her lip. I tasted blood in my mouth, but I did not care. My sinful witch of a wife. I loved her. I loved her so much it hurt.

It seemed to take forever, and my body ached from the excursion, my hips thrusting away into her. But I truly did not care. It may not have been heaven I was feeling, but it still felt so right. I pinned her down, holding her wrists against the bed, as my hard member thrust again and again and again into my darling Sarah. Our moans filled the room.

Finally I finished within her. It was not an issue to do so, as my wife's fertile days were behind her. There would be no second child for us. This was not what our lovemaking was for. This was pure fleshly desire. Lust pure and simple. I had witnessed an act of sinful incest, a ritual by witches, and I was so aroused that I had become, in a way, part of their debauchery.

I do not know how I was able to act as if nothing had happened. We broke our fast together as a family. We spoke about our day's plans, and I waved my Elizabeth off to continue her courtship with the butcher's boy. My seed had been cleaned off from the corridor floor during the night, but no-one had mentioned it. I was distracted of course. Not from the guilt of what was happening. Instead by desire. I wanted the night to come. I wanted to observe again.

And I did. I witnessed that night the same act. I watched my wife and our daughter making love. I witnessed my wife in her back, my daughter straddling her face. Her skin glistened in the candle night. Once more I pleasured myself in the watching, and as they finished, so did I upon the floor. I returned to bed and awaited the return of my Sarah. When she did, we made love as well. This was our new routine. Night after night of sinful pleasure.

It could not remain in such an unlikely balance for very long. It was Sunday. We had returned from Church, still dressed in our best clothes. We had all taken the communion together. When we returned home, it was Elizabeth who finally spoke of what we all knew was happening. I had suspected that the door was left open so that I could watch in deliberately. That they had been drawing me in, and they now had me ensnared completely.

"Father," she said, "tonight, rather than await in the hall, you should join us." As she spoke she put her hand upon my chest and looked up at me. "I hear you and mother after we have had our turn, and I want you to do that to me."

I was rendered speechless. My body was already responding however. I looked at my wife, my darling Sarah. She nodded, "Don't you think its time, Charles? Join us."

God was very far from my mind when I nodded in agreement.

"Yes. Yes my beautiful two. I shall." Elizabeth's smile made my heart skip a beat. She was so happy that I had agreed. She flung herself, wrapped her arms around me, and we kissed. Oh, we kissed. My daughter and I, kissed. My arms held her close, feeling her body against mine. Her firm breasts against my chest. I was fully hard now, and straining beneath my clothes. I felt Sarah's hands upon me from behind, wrapping her self around me and pressing her self against me. We could not wait. It was day time. The village was still awake. But none of us could care.

We stumbled into my bedroom, and fell upon the bed. Sarah closed the curtains, as my daughter and I began hurriedly pulling our clothes off. Her dress. Her petticoat. Her undergarments. I had seen Elizabeth naked many times now, but this was different. She lay beneath me, the perfection of womanhood there. Her breasts round and exquisite. Her form toned and wondrous. Her delicate hand reached down and stroked my shaft. Her father's manhood.

"Father, be my first." She whispered.

I knew what this meant. I was about to take my daughter's virginity. She was supposed to save herself for marriage. To take another man before her wedding night was a sin. We were so far from that. I knew I was under a spell of course. How could I not be? They were both undeniably witches. At that time, I did not care. I wanted to have carnal relations with my daughter.

That is what I did. I felt my daughter's wetness as I pushed into her. I felt her part like the sea, as slowly I pushed inside. There was no resistance. Nor was their any pain nor blood from the act. No, instead there was nothing but joy. I looked to the side and saw my wife naked too, a smile of pure pride and elation from watching me make love to our daughter.

I was gentle, with slow, long deliberate motions. I would not be rough like I had been with Sarah. I leaned down and kissed Elizabeth as I thrust into her. It was not fatherly however. No. I kissed her like the lover she now was. Deep, and tender, as was the way I moved inside of her.

Sarah surprised me with her next act. She moved me more upright, and then climbed in front of me, straddling herself over our daughter's face. It took me a moment to realise what she wanted. She wanted to be pleased as well. Elizabeth was obviously well practiced here, and her tongue lapped out and worked against her mother's sex. I kissed my darling wife then, the three of us in our unholy union.

We were sensible even in our lust. None of us let out a moan or any sound that could alert the neighbours to the despicable goings on within our bedroom. I picked up the pace, thrusting quicker now inside my daughter. One hand upon my wife's breast, the other on my daughter's hip. Sarah's cheeks were flushed, as she chanted something under her breath as we kissed. Elizabeth's face and tongue were pressed into her mother as I pressed against her.