Witch Hunter (10 page)

The girl removed her top to reveal her ample breasts and pushed them together as she bent forward towards him, showing off a cleavage that his cock might like to be enveloped in. She seemed to be doing less of a belly-dance now and more of a lap dance, which was probably what she did to make money before he found her. Now she was in his care, so money was irrelevant. He paid all her expenses, charged no rent and kept her in food and clothing, as he did with all the coven girls. He even purported to pay them a retainer, a generous monthly sum paid into a special account that could be accessed if any ever decided to go back to a ‘normal’ life. He occasionally let them see how much they were accruing whilst living this life of pleasure. Little did they know that the accounts were all bogus and would only ever pay out to him. In the grand scheme of things the amounts he supposedly paid represented only a tiny fraction of his vast wealth, and he could well afford to pay them for the delight they gave him in return, but he just
had
to double-cross them. He couldn’t help himself.

The dancing girl turned again, wiggling her knicker-clad rump and pushing it in his direction. Her fingers looped around the thin sides of her underwear. She had a big behind, bigger than what he considered perfect. There were even signs of some dimpling in the portion of the cheek poking out of the bottom of her knickers. She was looking over her shoulder at him, the lust evident in her eyes. The eyes then dropped to his groin and her bum went right out, in time with the downward movement of her hands, so in one deft move her arse was suddenly bare and stuck out, a mere two feet from his face.

The sex was puffy and poked out proud of the large thighs, as if it was desperate for its own sight of his erection. The buttocks were lewdly apart and he could see the oval of her dark, as yet unbleached anus. It looked nothing but rude to him. Seeing the direction of his glance, she made a show of licking her finger and reaching back to wipe her saliva around her little ring, before pushing just the tip inside. Then she removed her finger, gripped her cheeks with both hands and splayed her cheeks apart. The message was clear:
please do to me what you did last time
. That last time she had been amongst bushes, impaled upon Morgana’s silver dildo whilst he entered from the rear and gave her the fucking of her young life. Whilst yesterday he had enjoyed the initiate from that same ceremony, tonight he had the victim of the hunt. He had a different treat in mind for her.

This girl had received that punishment for failing to come up to his demands in physical appearance. After any punishment the victim spent time under his jurisdiction to recuperate, and so he could decide when she was fit for a return to the training classes. By the look of her she was not ready, and perhaps she never intended to be. While she was there he hadn’t yet used her personally, but he had farmed her out to some of his rougher business associates.

This particular girl was fast becoming the thin end of the wedge. He had already realised that some of the trainees deliberately attracted punishments so that they could be put to the hunt. Some returning victims might have told the others in guarded whispers of his beautiful cock and how he used it on them to teach them their lesson. If they
wanted
to be punished they wouldn’t focus on getting perfect for him. They just wanted sex, with anyone, when their sole aim should have been readying themselves for him alone. There was no incentive to train, to get their bodies in shape, to take their role seriously. He couldn’t risk sending them for bleaching when they might balloon in size on their return. They would remain fat nearly-witches, and he was fuelling their indolence every time he fucked them.

It wasn’t like they didn’t get fair warning to behave. If they failed to keep to the allotted regime they received a first warning, and had to undergo the ritual of purging in front of their classmates. If they still failed to come up to scratch they received their second and final warning in the guise of The Pounding, a rite he himself had dreamed up. This was done here in the Fuck Room, with all the Order present to witness it. The victim was placed on a treadmill with a leash around her neck bound to the control panel, so that she was pulled forward. She therefore had to run in an uncomfortable manner, bent forwards, which thrust her bottom out. The pace of the treadmill was not excessive but her problems were compounded by a fucking machine positioned at her rear, with a piston arm leading to a thick black ten-inch dildo attachment that buffeted the entrance of her well-oiled sex. The speed of the treadmill was set to gradually increase, so she had to maintain her pace with the prick slapping in and out between her labia.

God forbid she should stop or be unable to keep up, because she would be sent flying back onto the hard false prick and the hammer action would drive it into her. If she could not regain her footing she would be held there by the dildo and would have to seek out the little blocks at the side that acted like stirrups to keep her in position, bent forwards with her rump out as the prick pistoned its full length in and out of her body. The punishment went on as long as he decided necessary, and while she was in the stirrups the bacchantes were allowed to step forward and do whatever they wanted to her.

Incredibly, some girls still did not think this enough to put them back on the straight and narrow. Some had transgressed again, and thus found themselves the victim of The Hunt. This ritual was the most mystical, the most talked of and longed for. All the coven girls were desperate to be a part of it, although it seemed that some were so desperate they were willing to forgo the thrill of being a hunter and engineered it so they became the victim instead. This was hardly the point of the training classes. One serial offender even had to be prematurely promoted to the ranks of the bacchantes, because they did not know what else to do with her after she had been put twice to the hunt. That highlighted the folly of his system.

However, in essence, he loved the hunt. He saw it as the pivotal rite of their Order, where the bacchantes let themselves loose and let their primal spirit come forth. It was where they were closest to the myths and he felt most divine. He wanted to give them
real
victims to hunt, not bitches who craved it so much they barely ran. There was no sense in using his own trainees. He had therefore decided this particular girl was not going back. From now on, the hunted girls would be exempt from a return to training. They would still worship him, and be desperate for him again, but he could use this in other ways. If they weren’t prepared to dedicate themselves to him in the way he wanted, they would be used entirely for his ends, not for the good of the coven. He would use them as sweeteners in his less legal business deals, perhaps traded. He had a lot of Bulgarian business associates who had great use for pretty girls with big bums, so perhaps she would end up with one of them. Until then she would be used when the need took him, like now.

An athletic figure dressed in a toga came into his periphery but he didn’t take his eyes off the girl’s bottom.

‘More wine, Master?’ said the slave.

Why couldn’t Morgana’s girls be more like his slaves? His did everything asked of them without question. They played their roles to perfection and knew their place. The one he had picked out to serve him tonight was his new favourite, the young Dominic. He had liked him the first moment he saw him. He had felt his prick stiffen at some suppressed thought, and had to send Gavin back out with the new charge before his bulge became obvious.

It was Gavin the Head Slave who had found Dominic, and he had surpassed himself. It had been via the rugby club, as usual. He wasn’t sure quite why so many of these well-educated, fit young rugby-playing lads were so comfortable with their sexuality and so willing to experiment, but they were and he wasn’t going to argue. Gavin had said it would be a source of rich pickings, and he should know. He was then captain of the rugby team, the type of sporty, intelligent, good-looking lad that all the girls fancied and all the guys looked up to. It was seemingly impossible not to form a crush on him. His penchant was for rough sex, especially with him on the receiving end. Very few had given him what he craved. Very few dared. He considered most too beneath him to let them try, until Haydn Shady came along.

The Master let the slave fill his goblet. The lad’s hands were trembling, a combination of excitement and trepidation, no doubt. The slave was trying not to regard his Master’s body, but could not help himself.

‘Do you like what you see?’ the Master said, nodding towards the girl’s stuck-out rump, although both he and the slave knew he was really referring to his great prick.

‘I do, my Lord,’ said Dominic the slave, ‘very much so.’

The Master sneered and took a gulp of wine.

‘Sit on me,’ he commanded. ‘Backwards.’

It was music to the girl’s ears and she let go a little whimper of joy. She straddled the chaise and lowered herself down onto his prick, which he was still gripping at its base. He grunted aloud as her slick lips kissed his swollen tip and spread to engulf him. The warmth was glorious and he reminded himself that this surely eclipsed any feeling he could gain from another man.

She squatted over him, breathing hard, trying to relax herself enough to sink down. However, this fucking was not designed for her benefit nor would she ever have the chance to feel him inside her again, so the Master impatiently put his hand on her shoulder and pressed down hard to force her upon him. She took half his meat before the girth arrested her movement. She cried out. Her juice dribbled down his shaft onto his tight, smooth ball sack. He pushed again and down she slid until her bottom was squashed to his groin. She dutifully arched her back and leaned forward, so he could be afforded a view of her stretched sex.

She rode him, slowly at first, waiting until she had opened up. He could tell from her noise that she was already nearing ecstasy. As she relaxed she was able to increase her tempo and force, so that her buttocks could slap against him. The shuddering jolt through her flesh was mesmerising, but her bottom just did not have the pristine beauty of Morgana’s. The skin was not white but pink, and not even uniformly so. His prick actually twitched, enjoying the imperfection because it made her somehow more real. However, his disciplined mind pushed the thoughts away. Yes, she was good, but she was not good enough to deserve
him
.

The slave still positioned at his shoulder was breathing more heavily now. A quick glance to the side revealed a billowing in the fabric covering the slave’s crotch. That was one very good thing about this particular lad: he was seemingly incapable of keeping his prick down. It was obvious that he was drawn less to the sight of the girl and more to the glimpses of the Master’s cock. The Master allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. The view was indeed compelling. The stretched skin of his member was smooth and lightly tanned like the rest of him. It was seemingly gossamer thin and covered prime muscle. This meat was thick enough at the base to balance a goblet upon, when he was in the correct position. In fact, one of his games was to do so, and to have a girl on all fours ride his shaft with backward thrusts and make him come, without spilling a drop of his wine.

The girl was squealing now, as well she might, since he was filling her so completely. He
knew
this was what all the girls wanted above all. They wanted to be stretched open beyond what they believed possible. They wanted to be spitted to their bellies on the fattest pricks. When they were full, they wanted even more. He knew this because he took all his pointers from porn sites and magazines. He always had. It had never entered his head, even for a second, nor would it ever do so, to ask one of his conquests what
she
liked. Why the fuck would he? He had a huge prick, so he
knew
what they wanted. He wasn’t interested in love or tenderness – just pure, raw, filthy fucking. If he offered a huge cock, rode them hard and with great stamina, and then showered them with his beautiful hot seed, they would want him for ever. If they came in a panting, semi-conscious heap then he knew he would be a god in their eyes, and that swelled his ego. Fucking was, after all, not about two people but about
him
– about how magnificent
he
was.

When he felt her juice pooling at his arse he knew she was ready for more proof of his magnificence. He reached around for her breasts and clasped them, pulling her back so that her weight was against him. She had to adjust her feet, placing them on his thighs to get more purchase as she wriggled upon his cock. She still didn’t know what she was about to get.

‘Do you like what you see?’ said the Master again to his slave.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the slave replied, although the tent at the front of his toga already demonstrated his excitement perfectly.

‘Slide your
mentula
inside her, above mine,’ the Master commanded.

He heard the slave’s breath falter, but the lad still went immediately into action on his word. The toga was pulled up to expose the bare, slim erection and the slave grasped it at the base. He straddled the chaise and hunkered down, pointing his prick at the little piece of darkness below the clit. The Master felt the slave’s warm balls sink down upon his own, then the heat of the smaller erection against his shaft.

The girl warbled loudly as the lad pushed into her, but the Master was only concentrating on the feel of the smooth glide of prick against his. It was a scintillating friction, travelling all along his length as the cock was pushed slowly into the girl to stretch her even wider. He could feel the pulse of the slave’s lovely erection, even detect the underside of the silky exposed head now just touching his sensitive, stretched frenum.

There was a pause while the girl relaxed after this further invasion and the slave adjusted his weight so that he could find scope to move. The slave began a slow in-and-out thrust, sliding back and forth over the Master’s prick so that every vein and detail could be felt by the other. The Master couldn’t see the slave’s face, which was maybe just as well, since eye contact might have been perceived as affection between them. He didn’t want the slave to have any inkling how much he was enjoying the feel of him.