Bonus: Witch Stuff

A bonus story/track for my new book The Brute of Greengrave (and Other Stories). NSFW. PDF and MP3 below.

Written by Jemma Topaz / Read by Clockwork Sapphire.

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Witch Stuff

You glance furtively at the witch and, specifically, her behind. She is at the bar; ordering a drink, you assume. This place is fairly typical for bars in city centre hotels; it gets all sorts, but a witch always attracts attention. She is dressed in green dark enough that it is almost black; an asymmetric suit that does very nice things for her butt. You wonder what the front view is like, but at least you can admire the back view without her spotting you.

A group of young, loud, and drunk businessmen are eyeing her up as well; obviously, much less feministly than your completely non-objectifying gaze. 

After some jeering and joshing, a young businessman is pushed towards her. He walks over, deliberately casual. Leans insouciantly on the counter next to the witch. Smiles. Says something, you can’t hear what over the noise of the bar. You find yourself really hoping she doesn’t get picked up by this guy. She shakes her head; a cold ‘no’. The man laughs, and says something else, puts a hand on the witch’s shoulder. Mid-sentence, he seems to get a fit of coughing and choking. It goes on for a few seconds, until something flies out of his mouth, and lands wetly on the bar. A toad? Pink and wet. The guy stares at it; it begins to wander off at the slow and deliberate pace of a toad. The witch says something to the barman, and he hands her a glass, which she upends over the toad. The businessman appears to be feeling inside his mouth with his fingers, clearly panicking. The witch pushes the glass—and therefore the toad—she says something. The guy looks doubtful, but raises the glass and grabs the toad. He looks at the witch, who gestures toward his mouth. With a look of disgust he stuffs the toad in his mouth, almost gagging. Then a look of relief. He turns on his heels and runs out of the bar.   

The witch glances at his colleagues for a moment, and they quickly follow, drinks left midway through.

The barman serves the witch her drink; a double of dark spirit, scotch or bourbon. She nods at the barman, and then turns and looks directly at you. She is beautiful, in that slightly odd way many witches are. Her skin is very pale, her hair is dark, her eyes and lips are forest green. She walks toward you. 

You just stand there, like a panicked mouse watching a snake approach.

She sits at your table, and takes a sip of her drink. The suit has a low neckline, and you try not to look at her cleavage.

“Do you want to fuck?” she says.

⁂

Her hotel room was bigger than yours, with better views. She places her silver wand on the dresser.

“By the way, I’m—” you begin.

“No, dear,” says the witch. “No names. No relationship. No future. I just fuck you. You will like it. Okay?”

You nod, nervously looking down. “But you ought to know—” you begin.

“No.” She smiles, and reaches out a hand, lifts your chin. “I do not need your explanation or apologies,” she whispers. “Do not worry. Leave that to me. You just need to surrender.”

“Surrender?”

“To me. To pleasure. To obedience.” She leans forward and kisses you, surprisingly softly. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

She undresses you; well, she strokes you through the clothes, and they seem to fling themselves off.

“Delicious,” she says, and pushes you back into the bed. Her eyes are hungry, predatory; you shiver, though the room is warm. She kisses you again, harder this time; the taste of bourbon on her tongue.

“May I restrain you?” she asks, and you just nod.

“And do witch stuff to you?” You nod again. You hope she doesn’t intend to turn you into a frog, but you are too impatient to find out what the witch means.

She kisses your jaw, your neck, shoulders, all the way down your arm. The soft kiss on your wrist has the tingle of magic about it, and when you try to move your arm, some gentle but implacable charm pinions it in place. She does the same on your other wrist, and then descends, peppering kisses on your belly and your inner thighs before pinning your ankles in the same way.

She sits up, and slowly looks you up and down. “I knew you were the sort of beauty that looked best tied down and naked,” she says, running a finger along your clavicle.

She mutters something under her breath, and her suit flutters away; a brief storm of windborne leaves, clearing to nothing.

She is naked now; her skin is pale enough that you can see veins through it. She has almost no human wrinkles or sags, and yet she lights up the milf, or even gilf, part of your brain. She is beautiful, but perhaps not human. An occult creature. A hunter. You can feel a fluttery excitement in your chest. 

She crawls forward, her body over yours, but not touching. Her breasts are glorious, but your attention is caught by the circle of runes around each nipple. Black ink, or red, or green. You can’t read them, of course. Witch stuff. But you get the strongest feeling you should bow, or kneel, or abase yourself. You should be prostrated at her feet. You pull at your supernatural bindings, but they hold fast. 

“Must. Sorry. Need—” You try to explain why you are not performing obeisance, but you’re having trouble forming words.

“Don’t worry,” says the witch. “I can tell you really want to obey.”

You nod eagerly, and go to speak, but she places a finger on your lips, silencing you. She taps your lips, and you realise she wants you to open your mouth. She slides a couple of fingers in there; you lick and suck, while she plays with your tongue. She moves your head from side to side, to demonstrate, you think, the control she has over you. It does not concern you; you just concentrate on sucking. You feel like you're dissolving, like a sugar cube on a tongue, until you're a human-shaped focus of arousal and desire. You are keenly aware of the witch’s body held inches from your own.

You feel disappointment as she removes her fingers. She draws patterns on you in your own saliva. 

“You’re good at that, dear,” she says. “My obedient little mouth.”

She shifts up the bed, sliding her body against yours, mashing a breast against your face, a nipple into your mouth.

You lick and suck again, feeling relieved that you are thought worthy. Her knee is between your legs, gently rubbing; you can feel the witch’s cock, hard and warm, against your belly.

She detaches you from one breast, and feeds you the other, as you suck hungrily. 

“Mhm, this really is your area of expertise, isn’t it?” she says, pulling her nipple from your mouth. “I’m going to use your lips, your mouth, your throat.” You nod.

She manoeuvres herself so that she is kneeling above your head. She lets her witchcock drop onto your face. She has runes tattooed around its base but you can’t read them; flashes of caves and worshippers. She lifts and angles herself, inserting her witchcock into your awaiting mouth. You can taste the witch, wild and musky. She presses in. You try to relax, to suppress your gag instinct.

In a cave, you kneel on a mat made of some desert grass. The priestess extends an arm to you; a pale snake is wrapped around that arm. You feel honour and fear, and the jealousy of others. You open your mouth and the snake extends towards you.

You are not going to gag, you realise. The witchcock is down your throat, slightly pulsing, thrusting. You’re not even sure how you’re breathing; perhaps you are not, it doesn’t matter. You have surrendered; you are a worshipper, a toy, a warm orifice. 

You can feel your sense of self slipping, and with it your sense of time. You are a bright concentration of colours and desires, of timeless service.

The witch comes, pumping down your throat, filling you with sparkling liquid. 

Then she withdraws her witchcock, and sits back. You breathe, or pant rather: tired and satisfied. You feel somehow unwound, unspooled, but coherence is returning to your mind.

“Lovely,” says the witch. She reaches down, fingertips skimming. “What excellent foreplay, my dear. Now let us get down to business...”