Witch Hunter

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

The mist was trying to cling to the valley floor but away from the trees the vapour had all but burned off. On such bright spring mornings the sun will always win. The horses still snorted tiny clouds from their nostrils but hers was the only one breaking the stillness, whinnying as it shook its head and chewed on its uncomfortable bit. She leaned forward to issue a terse command into the ear of her mount, and it too fell silent. As always for initiations she wore her bassaris, her long cloak of fox skins. It symbolised new life and the sacrifice that was about to be made for it.

Beneath the cloak was a simple white cotton gown, but below the swell of her breasts a pentagram had been drawn in blood-red, inverted to represent the goat of lust, its horns pointing upwards at the heavens in defiance. Her hair flowed down her back, darker red than her cloak, with raven streaks running through it. She glared at her prey, her fiery eyes heavily lined in black and further accentuated by a narrow band of crimson painted across them from ear to ear. Her teeth were bared and showed bright against the scarlet of her wide lips.

‘You understand why you are here and the nature of your punishment?’ she snarled.

The prey looked through her fringe with forlorn eyes, unable to stop the tremble in her voice that was due to the morning chill and the panic gushing through her young body.

‘Yes, Miss Morgana,’ she managed to whisper.

‘Then run,’ Morgana said.

The condemned girl let loose a sob and looked back at the long slope running away from her, down to the scattering of hedges in the valley bottom that would offer her so little refuge. There was only a gentle climb on the far side, stretching up to the cover of the wood nearly a mile away. Those trees offered the only real chance of escape. She would never make it. She turned to face her tormentors one last time, searching for any signs of clemency, but the mounted Priestess angrily gathered a wad of saliva and spat it at her. And so she ran.

She had rarely needed to break into anything more than a jog since her schooldays and immediately felt the judder of her belly and heavy breasts. She cursed the extra weight that had caused this sentence to be passed upon her. She had been dragged to this place straight from her bed, and her attire proved only a hindrance. Her slippers flew off immediately to leave her barefoot on the dewy grass. Her short nightgown rode up to flash her chubby bare behind, pale in the morning brightness, though nowhere near as white as the skin of the hunter girls behind her, whose whoops and jeers chased her down the hill.

Morgana watched her fleeing quarry with rising excitement and turned to her girls with proud delight. They were formed into a line on foot, their seething fuck-hunger palpable. Although they had to await her command they were at the very limits of their obedience. They had to hold each other back with raised elbows, gripping handfuls of each other’s flesh as their desire threatened to boil over, grasping each other’s hair to prevent any breaking of the line before the order was given. Despite their nearly uncontrollable lust any such disobedience would be ruthlessly punished, so they restrained one another out of necessity.

Their faces were lit with anticipation, none more so than the one gaining her first taste of the hunt. That girl wore the smooth red dildo at her groin, strapped in place over her deerskin leggings. The red of the dildo showed that she was to be blooded that day. All the girls wore the same: tight hide leggings constraining their ample thighs, and loose white smocks, many of which would be ripped off and discarded as they closed in, so that they fell upon their quarry with their chests bare. Their harnessed dildos were allocated by the Priestess herself, all smooth and hard but in varying sizes to signify seniority or current favour.

They wore ivy wreaths and painted faces, a few with pentagrams charcoaled onto their foreheads, one with a third eye drawn and coloured there, a couple with sanguineous tears painted on their cheeks, falling from eyes smudged with heavy black makeup. They all carried their staff – their thyrsus, to give it its proper name, though most of them privately referred to it as their fuck-stick. It was a rod some four feet in length, topped with a large pine cone. The shaft was wrapped in ivy and the end dressed with foliage, most of the girls opting for nettle leaves. It was their symbol, the staff carried by the legendary bacchantes.

In ancient mythology they used the thyrsus to strike rocks and trees to elicit water or honey, or plunged it into rivers to turn the flowing water into wine, their lifeblood. Or they used it against the hunted, employing what was in truth a symbol of fertility to trip their victim and beat them into submission, before tearing them to pieces and even gorging on the still-warm flesh. Her girls had not quite descended to such barbarity, but the Priestess still sometimes felt she should reach the scene of the ‘kill’ in good time, just to be on the safe side.

Morgana turned her head from them and sought the gaze of the Master. He was flanked by two male escorts. They were all tall in their saddles, though he of course was the largest. His frame seemed even bulkier when swathed in his cape. Everything about him was black: the shirt beneath the heavy outer covering; the britches, stretched taut by the wide girth of the charger beneath him; his long boots in the stirrups; his gloved hands, one holding the silver claret goblet and raising it to his thin, pale lips. His eyes could scarcely be seen under the wide brim of his hat, but she saw his nod towards her, his acknowledgement that proceedings should begin. She felt the jump of adrenalin inside and turned again to her baying pack of hunter girls.

‘Get her,’ was all Morgana needed to say.

They were off in an instant, pushing away from each other to try and gain the lead, shrieking in their excitement. None of them was slight of build. All had thick thighs and paunches, big bottoms if not big breasts. But they were relatively fit and used to such exertion. Their prey was already flagging as they whooped after her. She was looking desperately back over her shoulder, having not yet even reached the first cover of the bushes. She would do as all other victims did. She would drag herself panting into the hedgerow, see the long climb up to the woods and know that it was impossible to get there. She would scramble around to find somewhere to hide, realising above her panic that it was a fruitless exercise. Then, with her heart banging in her chest and her lungs defeated, she would crouch amongst the scant cover of the bushes and await her inevitable capture. By the time the pack found her they would be beside themselves with bubbling desire, and she would bear the full force of it.

Morgana knew she had to get there soon after her girls did. She watched them follow their quarry into the thicket, scattering this way and that to find her and dig her out. She heard the raised cry of triumph and saw them dashing through the bushes towards the sound, each intent on getting her hands on the newly unearthed prize before the others, since the most gratification was to be gained from being one of those to overpower the victim, being one of the first to force a way into her when her body was quaking and whilst she still had the strength to scream her frantic passion into your ears. The scramble to get to their prey would be frenzied, and would leave her ravaged.

The Priestess kicked her horse into action and trotted down the hill. When she got to the mêlée the girl was already stripped bare, her body smeared with mud, grazed from their raking nails and red from their slaps. Her nipples were inflamed and pointing skywards, the flesh of her breasts flecked with nettle rash. She was on her back, her arms pinned to her sides. Her hips had been raised from the ground and her thighs forced wide apart so that a huntress could get on her knees between them. Her buttocks were being harshly gripped to hold her steady while she was taken. Some of the girls stroked their prey’s belly and chest with their nettles. Some bent over to pinch or bite her nipples. A couple of them concentrated not on their victim but on her lover, trying to pull her off by the hair so that they could take a turn of their own.

Morgana unhurriedly dismounted, smiling at the writhing mass before her. She went to her saddle bag and withdrew the huge silver penis. Its smooth surface gleamed in the sunlight. It was heavy to hold, solid metal. When it was on, it protruded a full eight inches from her body and was thick enough to fill her palm, so that her fingers could barely encompass its girth. There was a gentle upward curve to it and the head was formed into the distinct shape of a fat glans, tapering at its tip. It was the queen, as befitted her status.

She watched as the girls plundered their victim, moving her one way and then another, taking turns with their toys and fingers. Tears were streaking the face of the victim when Morgana stepped in and moved her onto all fours. She held her and delivered smack after smack to her poor wobbling bottom, turning the already scratched and welted flesh a deeper red. The girl cried out even louder but could only manage to thrust her battered posterior out into the hail of slaps. The puffy quim was visible between the large thighs, engorged by bliss and tingling nettle stings, treacherously glistening with the excitement that allowed her to be taken so deeply.

Morgana took off her cloak and spread it upon the ground alongside the girl. Then she lay upon it, with the gleaming silver spear phallus curving up towards the sky. The girl eyed it through her streaked hair, and then bit her lower lip to mask its trembling. The girl knew what she had to do, but still the Priestess ordered it.

‘Impale yourself,’ was the command.

The girl squatted over the silver penis and very slowly lowered herself, her tremors evident as soon as the tip spread her plump sex and disappeared inside her. She pushed down more, her eyes screwing shut as she slid herself down the cold length and took it deep. The surface of the toy was too smooth and her quim too slick to prevent it slipping all the way inside her, filling her completely. Her puss lips kissed the black leather harness as she rode the toy up and down, with Morgana’s nails gripping her rump and helping her movements.

She was breathing hard and threatening to come, but even with help from the Priestess she was tiring quickly after her ordeal. Morgana pulled her down to arrest the movements, embracing her tightly whilst calling forth the girl who was the subject of this hunt initiation, the one still sporting her bright red dildo. Again, the protocol was known but the Priestess still felt obliged to spell it out.

‘Fill her cūlus,’ she commanded.

The red-dildo girl hunkered down behind the quarry to study the little pink ring up for sacrifice. It was wet with spit and slightly open from the fingers that had invaded its tight confines, but the initiate took pity and reached for the battered vial that had been presented to her in the pre-hunt ceremony to be used for this very purpose, and that she now wore on a string around her neck. She removed the bung and dribbled the clear oily contents along the length of her dildo and onto the twitching bottom now at her mercy. She then took a firm grasp of the girl’s hips, pressed her toy to the target and drove herself forward.

The victim’s squeal almost broke into a scream but she bit her lip just in time and took the slide inside her, even pressing backwards to help its passage. She was given some respite but lust soon took over and she was taken, her soft cheeks splayed apart by the Priestess as the initiate slapped ruthlessly hard against her. Stuffed and filled and with her flesh quivering from the shock waves, she was brought to a rapid, hard climax. However, even when the dildo was finally removed, her ordeal was not yet over. All attention turned to the sound of slow clip-clopping hooves amongst them, which presaged what she must still endure.

Morgana looked up at the Master on his mount and grinned broadly, clutching the victim tight to her with the metal appendage still completely embedded in her body. He studied the scene for a while, taking stock of the girl’s bottom and sex.

He dismounted, his eyes firmly on the girl’s rear end as he made his slow approach. He opened his cloak and unfastened the front of his britches so that he could haul out his huge thick erection. The wretch looked around to see his fat meat bobbing up and down with the blood surging into it. He took a small bottle from his inside pocket, removed the cap, held her hair and thrust the bottle under her nose so that she was forced to take a deep breath of the emanating vapours. Her jaw dropped open.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ he said with a sneer, ‘I am.’

He presented his great erection and pressed forward slowly, more so than the newcomer before him, since he was twice as thick as the toy she had sported. Very gradually he broke the girl’s resistance and slid the full length inside her. It seemed an impossible quantity of turgid flesh to take. She howled but held still, the ecstasy spread all over her face. Once he was fully embedded he waited for her muscles to grip his girth and squeeze him. This pressure, plus the ache within his bladder, was enough to make his erection flag just a little. He exalted in his power over her. She would remember this act for ever, just as they all did. None of them would ever take a fatter cock than his, certainly not in their bottom. To be stretched open by him was bliss enough. They would dream of this experience in all their private moments and pray that he would come to them again one day to repeat it. Nothing else they did would ever match this moment. No one else would ever be more in their thoughts.

The girl sank down against her Priestess, the feeling all too much to take. He roared in triumph and proceeded to slide his cock in and out of her backside, taking it nearly all the way out and then driving it home to slap hard against her buttocks over and over. The girl was very nearly passing out but Morgana showed rare compassion, pressing her full lips to the girl’s open mouth and kissing her lovingly, trying to give her the strength for one more climax before he finished.

He threw his head back and bellowed, slapping the wretch’s defenceless bottom as he came inside her. He gritted his teeth as the tremors rocked him. As soon as they subsided, he slipped his softening prick from her, unceremoniously stuffed it back into his britches and remounted his horse. The wretch gingerly slipped off the metal toy and stood on shaking legs.

Currently there was a two-tier system for his girls: those on the periphery, sworn to secrecy and schooled in the rituals though not allowed to partake in them, except as victims if they broke any rules or conditions; and the bacchantes, his fully-fledged initiates, who lived and worshipped exactly by his code, who purified their skin and swore to do anything in his name, the more immoral and degenerate the better. The entire British Isles yielded few more than a dozen girls who had such dark hearts, such wanton souls that they would seek him out and embrace his vision of perverted nihilism. He needed more. He needed genuine victims to reward their loyalty.

He spurred on his horse and trotted out of the wood with his escort in tow. The orgy would continue in his absence, for the hunters were now crazed with desire after this show. Their reverence for him would be raging inside and they would want to demonstrate their homage through depravity. They would jostle for the chance to indulge themselves further with the initiate, and then they would fall upon each other, as if possessed.

The bushes would be alive with their gasps and cries, the sound of sex and slapping flesh. It would have been surreal and horrifying for anyone who chanced upon the scene, but this was impossible since all the lands around were privately owned, and no one would ever dare trespass. It was his secret dominion. Here he was God, and anyone who was either lured there or strayed onto these lands would feel the full force of his divinely demonic lusts. Indeed, they might never get to see the real world again, even after he was finished with them.

1

Mimi decided early that it was a perfect day for a picnic. She knew the perfect spot too, found just a few weeks ago when she had been out walking alone. She had been drawn off the beaten track after sighting a fox. She had tracked it through to a small clearing where she had stayed crouched behind the greying trunk of a fallen oak, watching it as it played around and pounced upon leaves and insects. It had been a magical few moments. She had felt a sudden surge of elation at this window on nature. She had seemed at one with the world, experiencing a mixture of freedom and security, cosseted as she was by the dense foliage surrounding her.

She had also felt a rather uncharacteristic urge to frolic. She had flashing images of herself stripping off right there, although such daring public naughtiness was hardly her forte. She might even have gone through with it if it hadn’t been rather too chilly that morning for whipping your bits out, especially when brush-tailed wild animals might be watching. If she had been there with someone else, though, and that someone had taken it upon themselves to ravish her, maybe forcing her over that same fallen trunk and ripping her knickers away to leave her at his mercy, why, then there would have been little she could do about it. No one would have been around to come to her aid, there would be nothing she could do to resist being plundered, maybe even spanked …

So a picnic it was, and lazy Dominic would have to play the loving boyfriend and drag his arse out of bed to accompany her, even though he had sounded so uninterested in the whole idea on the phone. He didn’t even seem to care that he would be off back to college in a few days and this would be one of their last chances to be alone for a while. Fortunately that morning the Spinster had gone off to garner the latest village tittle-tattle, giving Mimi free rein of the kitchen to prepare a picnic for two without prying eyes and uncomfortable questions. Dominic was her secret and tongues would be ceaselessly wagging if anyone knew they were an item.

Getting out of her room and having the run of that gorgeous wisteria-covered cottage was a treat in itself, however brief such moments were. She loved the place. One day she hoped to have enough money to buy just such a property within the village, but for now renting a room was a more than acceptable alternative, despite having to share with the spinster landlady. It meant a time-consuming drive to reach work in Oxford, but the quiet leafy lanes could make your heart soar with optimism when the early sun lit the green, flint-strewn fields and the beech woods behind, and brought the hedgerows alive. It had been a different story in her first winter, when any snowfall or thick ice rendered the roads impassable and forced her to exist for days off pub food or remnants in the freezer. She didn’t care though. Anything was worth it to live here. She had coveted a place in the village for as long as she could remember.

She had grown up in the nearby town where Dominic now lived. Her parents would bring the family out here for summer picnics in the glades or autumn walks amongst the copper-leaved trees. They provided many of her fondest childhood memories: colour-splashed meadows, swallows dipping and zipping over lush-cropped fields, dew-covered cobwebs amid frosty thickets, or pristine snow blankets and freezing breath. Sun or rain, it was always special. She tried to imbue her lethargic boyfriend with the same enthusiasm as they sauntered through those woods on the way to her Secret Location, but he had his standard couldn’t-give-a-fuck face on. He seemed so one-dimensional sometimes that it wearied her. How their short relationship had continued was a mystery.

He was tall and nicely muscular, and good-looking in a posh-student way. Plus he had the most delectable of pricks: slim but very long and silky-smooth when erect, which was often. It seemed to have a mind of its own. It certainly had more go than the rest of him. A few times when she was making advances he had seemed to be crying off, only to be outvoted by his own member. And once unleashed it could certainly hammer home with the best of them, even if its owner was more than a little unimaginative when it came to dirty business.

The staying power and speedy recovery rate of his young erection ensured she was never left disappointed. That was not something she had always been able to claim in the past, so it was worth clinging on to, even if the man himself could barely raise the passion to hold her hand, better still delight in the promise of the secret place she was taking him to. He could gather even less zeal for the smells and the promise of the day that were firing her, or for the snatched views across the landscape of her childhood haunts.

The timelessly pretty villages and hamlets here were dotted around the countryside, some more easily reached across the fields than by the narrow roads. To her they all seemed like miniature empires in sleeping valleys, all unique despite their close proximity, all holding their own wonderful secrets that were jealously guarded from outsiders. In more recent times these outsiders had come to populate the villages. The steep rise in house prices forced the locals elsewhere as wealthy Oxford and London commuters took over. Affluence was pervasive, but nowhere lost its ancient, deep-set notion of serfdom, of the poor locals giving service to their richer landowners. The old customs and folklore were maintained and even the new wealth could not diminish it. The newcomers simply had to absorb the traditions or suffer isolation.

Before Mimi had even moved into her room, some nine months ago, her gossip-happy landlady had shuffled her fat posterior from house to church to village hall telling anyone who wanted to know that a young journalist from the Echo was to be her new tenant. Fortunately, the Spinster also told everyone that she was a local girl, so Mimi found herself more immediately accepted than some of the London incomers would be, although she still noticed some reticence when being spoken to. She guessed she would have to live there a good many years before this wore off.

She also noticed that she became a hub for gossip. If certain blabbermouths wanted a scandal spread around they often ‘accidentally’ divulged their secret within her earshot, as if she had the power to splash it across the front pages. This didn’t bother her. Hopefully one day the local scandal might well prove to be the roots of the very story she was desperate to break, the one that did indeed make headlines and get her noticed.

She would be the first to admit that in nearly five years at the Echo she hadn’t made the impact she had intended. She was well-liked and appreciated but she suspected this was more for her prick-pleasing attributes than for her journalistic prowess. She had the kind of looks that many men seemingly found hard to ignore, although they tended to induce private thoughts of filthiness rather than outward declarations of love. She was blonde and by many accounts very pretty. She received plenty of compliments about her large blue eyes and her sunshine smile, but it was her body that brought out the lust in her admirers.