Witch Love, Woman’s Love

That mysterious woman wasn't living far. It was a twenty-minute walk from the third-story pad* I had been living in for a year and a half, that is, since I got back from the war in Europe (*pad means "flat", "apartment"). I found myself lucky to have made it back to America without any Nazi bullet in my skin. Life was going swell for me, but I was getting lonely and I was a bit awkward around people. I was having a hard time to fit in where I worked, but I was hardly the only war veteran who had trouble making the transition back to peace time.

Like all young men, I was eager to meet a nice girl, marry her and start making babies. Things were not going all that well in the girls department. I had returned to Olympic weightlifting and started again from where I had left in 1943. Now it was 1947. I was 23 years old, six feet tall, broad shouldered and really strong, with a full head of dark hair, but I was hopelessly shy around girls.

In France, my fellow GIs wouldn't believe how shy I was and how much prompting I needed to get in the sack with a sex-starved woman who was twenty years my senior.

And here I was in Philly. Single. Tall and decent-looking and wearing proper street clothes with a swell fedora hat, yet hopelessly single.

I was strolling on busy streets; it was early evening. There were a great many passing cars, and long rows of parked cars, most of them black, brown, green or dark blue. I recognized a beige Chevrolet sedan from 1940. The 1948 models had been out for sale for a month. In parks and alongside the avenues, the tree leaves were all ablaze with October's fiery oranges, reds and golds.

Throngs of pedestrians were out and about. Two men out of three wore a suit and a fedora hat, but no trench coat as the weather was very pleasant; all women wore a dress or a skirt and blouse with a jacket or open coat, and some sort of round hat, often adorned with some shiny bauble.

Their dresses covered their knees in all cases; I loved watching their stockinged lower legs and heel-shoed feet as they strolled by on the busy sidewalk under a dusk sky. Well, I loved watching broads altogether.

Women's hair were well groomed and usually worn around shoulder length and tied up in public. Men's hair was trimmed short; I saw no man with long hair. Nearly all of them were white folks.

Some hobos and street cleaners were there as well with battered plaid shirts and workman trousers or jeans and dirty shoes. Many of them were black men. I spotted young couples walking hand in hand. Policemen were patrolling afoot; they greeted the nicely dressed people and kept a suspicious eye on the not-so-well-dressed people. Cops were suspicious by trade.

As I reached Chestnut Street and passed the Horn & Hardart automat restaurant, I noticed a fine-looking brunette, perhaps 20 years old; nice dress, and a very stylish round hat. Her green hat perfectly suited her wavy, chestnut hair. Her wool cardigan was equally stylish and its color matched her hat and perfectly complemented her dusk pink dress. People dressed with style in Philadelphia. Perhaps she was from an Italian family, for she had a rather large nose, but her complexion was Irish-pale.

Was she looking my way? My heart began to race. I almost managed to say hello. I walked past her. Was she smiling? It seemed she was indeed looking at me. Two minutes later, I understood in a flash that I should have said "Good evening Miss! This is a mighty fine weather to take a stroll!" and something nice might have developed from there.

I rushed back to that spot in front of Horn & Hardart. Of course, she was gone. As usual, I had been too shy and slow. In such a big city, my chances of bumping into her again were next to zilch.

I went back and reached my destination—a small, second-story pad where lived a young woman who called herself an affordable witch and said over the phone she would help me for a small fee.

I knocked on her door, number 22.

"Come right in! It's unlocked!" said a wonderfully feminine, soprano voice, aloud, using an inviting tone.

I walked in. It felt like entering the home of a gypsy woman; it was dark-wooded and filled with a plethora of bizarre artifacts, small bottles and whatnots. She walked in the room. She was a blonde with long hair that streamed down to her lower back. I was surprised; from the way her living room was furnished and decorated, I was expecting a raven-haired fortune teller.

She wore a black gown, tightly adjusted under a thin belt at her waist, letting me make out her child-bearing hips and the medium-sized curves of her breasts. She smiled and offered me a glass of wine.

"I was expecting you! Normally, my door's locked, mind you, but, oh, I was still thinking it could be a robber, or perhaps two or three of them!"

As she spoke, she gently put her left hand above her left breast and almost caressed it while handing me my glass of wine. It was fine; just as fine as any wine I had drank in France or Germany. This girl had style! And sexy too.

Her gaze followed my gaze; the blonde witch smiled as she caught me looking at her boobs.

"I see that you found your way all right, Mister..."

"Oh... I'm Dean! And you..."

"I'm the Witch! I may be something less later on, but for now, Dean, I'm the Witch!" she said as she gracefully started to dance and whirl in her living room. I watched her as I drank my wine.

Then, as she whirled and danced and kept playfully smiling at me, the hem of her gown was freely waving at her ankles. I noticed she was barefoot. Oh, God! Her feet were really a treat to watch; I had a mighty hard-on as I kept looking at her dancing feet, the pitter-patter very dim on her forest-green carpet. The whiteness of her feet was bright against that carpet.

"I don't dance like that for all my clients!" she said, laughing. "I select them, my dear! This is only a sideline, a witchy sideline! I know a lot about you, perhaps more than you know yourself!"

As she spoke, I became petrified. My jaw dropped in utter astonishment. Her hair was raven black now! I couldn't have been mistaken; I positively remembered her hair when I first walked in—she was a blonde. Impossible!

She laughed.

"You like dark hair, don't you! And you like a girl's feet too!"

I tried to snap out of my state of shock. I faintly nodded. I emptied my glass of wine. Right now, I needed whisky!

"All right! Shall we begin?"

She put a tender hand on my meaty shoulder as she gently spoke, looking up at me from her petite, five-foot-two frame.

Her touch on my shoulder sent a clear message and completed the flagpole status of my erection, which now slightly impeded my walking. The raven-haired witch laughed her head out as she led me by the hand in her dim-lighted kitchen.

We sat at a round table, face to face. Her dark hair was smoothly shining under the dim tawny light. There were tarot cards and a large crystal ball emitting a spooky blue light, a deep-sea kind of blue. There was a soft, silky tablecloth of the same green as the rug in her living room. Incense and something like frankincense were gently persuading me to sit down and listen to the lovely witch.

She looked a bit younger than me, perhaps 20 or 22 years old. She was fresh-faced with really delicate features. The paleness of her cheeks told me that I would uncover milky-white charms if I undressed her.

"You may be surprised if I told you my age; I'm a tiny bit older than I look. And as for the rest, we'll see."

She told me this as if she were reading my thoughts. I could feel deepness and learning in her emerald-green eyes as she looked at me, so I believed her. Perhaps she was thirty, but there was no way she could be older than that.

She cast her head back as she exploded in laughter. "Thank you, young man... Oh, you really flatter me. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"But... How can you..."

"Oh, the train of your thoughts is easy to deduce. Haven't you read Edgar Allan Poe and Dupin's methods of reasoning, or Sherlock Holmes and his logic?" she said in a gently mocking tone. She kept smiling at me; her gaze never left my eyes.

"So, what can I do for you, Dean? Give you some potion to make you attractive to the girl of your dreams?"

"Yes..." I replied, flabbergasted at her uncanny ability to read or deduce my thoughts. "I... I was thinking about something like this."

"Oh, come, Mister! You don't need any love potion, a man as young and strong as you; and besides, potions are dangerous! They have unpredictable side effects. No, all you need is faith in yourself and self-confidence! But let's begin with the present moment, shall we? I'll read tarots for you so you can relax a bit. All right, let's begin..."

She shuffled and drew her tarot cards with devilish speed and accuracy; she was fantastic! I flipped the cards... The Hermit, Death, The World.

"I see," she said in a low tone while I was checking her breast shapes. "I see... In the past, you were alone. In the present, you are entering a big change with a sense of renewal. For the future, there is the World for you—a sense of achievement, fulfillment, and completion. You will achieve something that you've always wanted! And I can help you with that!"

Before I realized what was happening, the Witch had left her chair and she was all over me, kissing me and wrapping her arms around me, filling my field of vision and my nostrils with her raven hair and her fragrance!

"Take me, young man! Take me, right on this table! Oh, you're so big and strong, and I'm so bored. So, fuck me! Fuck me on this table and you'll feel a lot better!" she purred between kisses. I heard her snapping her fingers.

As I heard her referring to her table, my eyes went on the green-covered tabletop while she sensually kissed my neck and slid her nimble hands under my pants. Again, a new shock, a new surprise! The crystal ball had disappeared. There were only the tarot cards left.

"Come on, my hunk! My beefcake! Put me on the table and use me!"

Getting really horny, I did what the Witch asked. She yelped with excitement as I picked her up like a feather and put her down on her fortune-telling table butt first.

Her feet being nearest to me, I grabbed her ankles and started avidly kissing and licking her delicate toes and the amazingly soft skin on the top of her feet. My dick was ragingly pushing the front of my pants as I fully took in the scent, feel and contours of her lovely feet and ankles while she purred and begged me to fuck her right now, urgently.

She had raised her black witch's gown all the way up to her thighs, showing me the way. I delightfully ran my hands over the white silkiness of her calves, her knees, then her alluring thighs, going higher and higher while pushing her gown up, eventually tucking it against her waist.

She wore nothing underneath! Her naked vulva was casting a natural spell with her neat vee of raven bush that predictably matched her long, shiny hair. Her witch's hat had predictably fallen on the checkered, black and white kitchen floor. I didn't remember seeing her with such a pointy hat; I could have sworn she wore no hat, but there it was, lying on the floor.

Realizing with stupor that I was going to copulate for the first time in more than two years, I felt a surge of manly power. My dick stuck out at flagpole-attention when I hastily dropped my pants and boxers, acting on her words as she kept begging me to fuck her right here and there.

I still wore my white shirt and brown necktie; I didn't care. She was still wearing her gown, yet the shapes of her breasts had a powerful effect on me. As hard as a breeding horse, I forcefully spread her legs apart, hearing her loud purring, and I advanced into her with my seven-inch dick pointing right at her inviting pussy, the coral-colored lips of which I plainly saw under her black vee of mystery.

I pushed the purple head of my circumcised dick and went right inside her soaking-wet cunt. She let out a loud groan and caressed her own breasts through her gown as I began pounding her like a madman! I loved it. I had often dreamed of fucking a gipsy fortune-teller right on the very table where she had just done her fortune-telling, and it was happening, except she was a genuine witch.

As I pounded her with relentless abandon and gleefully felt her tight vagina massaging my young prick, I watched her as she kept purring and caressing her boobs. She was still clothed while I was grabbing her naked thighs. Her breasts were covered, yet I felt immensely aroused at the sight of her moving mounds. The effect was just as strong as if I had seen her bare breasts jiggling as I fucked her on that creaking table.

I suddenly remembered her feet; her lovely feet... So sexy! I raised her legs all the way up, then, I squeezed them together with a slight bend in her knees, in such a way so that her feet were right next to my face. Then, I grabbed her ankles and pounded her like a psycho whose only goal in life was to pound women as hard as humanly possible. I precummed as I moved her legs a bit sideways, so I could watch her beautiful head bobbing on the creaking table along with her moving breast shapes.

She was whimpering hard as I kept powerfully rocking her 100-pound body with my 220-pound frame. Her arms were freely resting on both sides of her pleasure-distorted face, so her breasts were dancing under her gown, their enthralling shapes offered to my plain view. She clearly wore no bra under her witch's regalia.

Suddenly, she groaned in a peculiar high-pitched tone as she violently shuddered on the table, its legs creaking wild as I hammered her. I gleefully felt her vagina throbbing and squirting around my dick. She orgasmed, powerfully, and I kept going, trying to pound her even harder.

As she kept being rocked and taken on her fortune-telling table, she looked at me directly in the eyes and voiced her post-orgasmic bliss...

"Oh my young Sir... Ohh, God, oh, oohh, ooohhh! Yes! Yes! Yes! They got me! They got me! In the showers... In the showers, with their big fat dicks! Aaah, aahhh, no, no, you can't do this, I'm a witch, I'm a white girl... Oh yes... Yes! Yes! Yes! Keep going!"

She had a second orgasm, her mouth wide open and her eyes closed; her face was unbelievably pretty as she faintly groaned, high-pitched in her intimate sounds. I was utterly reveling in the act, wondering how I managed to stay in active duty for so long inside her tight paradise as I kept pounding her, watching the alluring paleness of her legs and feet while her breasts kept jiggling like crazy under her black gown, with her long hair glimmering under the kitchen's dim lights.

"Oh, Ma'am! It's there! There! It's nrrrhhh! Uuugghh!"

I blissfully exploded inside the witch! I felt the hot relief and listened to her purring as three or four powerful bursts of icing were spewed out of my bursting cock...

This was so much better than the first-time sex I had experienced with a 40-year-old German Baroness while my squad mates were busy gang-fucking her 20-year-old daughter; of course, they had left me with the old one and taken the youngster for themselves. I had fucked her on a massive oak table while hearing her daughter climaxing in the arms of my fellow GI's.

But this! Witch love! I no longer envied my buddies, for I knew that the maddening explosion of cum I had just experienced inside my 22-year-old witch was far stronger than anything any of them would ever experience.

My lovely companion quickly put herself together again after a well-deserved bathroom break. We sat together at the table, which had stood under our wild fuck session. The tablecloth now had a diffuse scent of female juices where I sat. Her crystal ball had mysteriously materialized back in its previous spot in dead center of the round table.

"Do you feel better now, Mister?" she asked in a jesting tone. "Now, let's talk about my price... No, don't take out any money! I'm not asking for money. I want something more, something more fleshy and tangible. You see, I know a great deal about you. You're an Olympic weightlifter and you do your lifting four times a week at Smith & West Gym, in a black neighborhood.

"This is an all-black gym. I've always wanted to go there, but they won't let a white woman there, unless she is with a lifter from their club. Of course, I could use my magic to seduce one of them and get what I want, but where's the fun in that? No, I want to go there with you, as your new girl companion. And this will be my price for helping you."

"Just that?"

"Just that. And something tells me that you will love being there with me!"

I nodded and said I would talk to my fellow lifters and the gym's owner. There would be no problem at all. I would call her to fix the time. All was settled.

Then, I invited her to go a nearby diner with me, but she declined.

I had hoped to spend the night at her place and bang her a second time, this time seeing her in the nude, but she laughed and said I would earn such a privilege only when she would found herself in that all-black gym as the one and only white woman there.

She said she would come there stripped of all her powers. Whatever she had in mind—I had a pretty good idea what it was and hoped I was right—she was to have it as a woman, not as a witch.

Eight days later, there was quite a commotion at Smith & West Gym. A white woman was a very rare sight among these black lifters. That gym had only three white lifters, who had joined on a special recommendation from a full member, and none of my fellow white lifters ever brought their wife here; they would never do such a thing for all the tea in China.

My lovely witch was there, watching all the lifters and disturbing their concentration without saying a word. Back then, black men were usually referred to using the word "negro" or "colored man". Not all of them liked white women, but some did have a fancy for them and their forbidden beauty.

As I watched her as I trained, I could tell she was immensely enjoying all their gazes on her white person.

She wouldn't tell me her name, allowing me to call her Wendy if I preferred, but insisting on the W initial. Since she had come to the gym as a woman, I decided to call her Wendy for the occasion.

Wendy looked remarkably like some movie actress—wavy black hair that she had styled carefully, a fresh-looking face that was just as pretty as the prettiest pin-up done by a top-notch painter, and a burgundy-red dress that deliciously showcased her assets.

Many a lift was missed due to the lifter looking a bit too much at her stockinged lower legs, clearly visible since her dress reached only about two inches down her knees. Her thin leather belt powerfully showcased her lithe waist, her hourglass figure and the ungodly beauty of her perky breast shapes—such boobs as I had never seen in the flesh myself in spite of having fucked her like there was no tomorrow.

To say I enjoyed seeing her walking around in the gym was the understatement of the year. She kept smiling at and eying the lifters. I overheard a middleweight saying "Thank God my wife never comes here!" He had a powerful tent in the front of his training trousers.

The shape of her butt was a sufficient cause for the world heavyweight champion to miss a routine snatch. He was doing his eight sets of two using two-fifty, and he held the world record in the Two-Hand Snatch at 307 pounds. Like all of us, he always snatched using a split style, dropping under the weight with one foot forward, one foot behind.

"What happened to your technique and speed, Mister John Davis?" joked Lloyd, the gym owner, a grey-bearded man with a warm-looking, often-smiling face, his skin a healthy chocolate brown. He lived his Olympic glory days in 1920, 1924 and 1928 after he had fought in World War One. Lloyd had seen the dawn of the current three-lift era; in his younger days, the competed lifts were many, and some of them were performed using one hand only; today, all competitions featured the same three lifts—the Clean & Press, the Snatch and the Clean & Jerk, in that order. The best three-lift total won.