2 comments/ 33300 views/ 7 favorites A Witch's Tale By: WRJames I AM NOT SURE that you can hear me. I am not sure if you are still near to me, somewhere in the dark. I am not even sure that you are still alive. Last night, I heard you sobbing. The night before, I heard you scream when they came for you. Perhaps it was your screams, later on, that were punctuated by my own. Perhaps you cannot hear me, perhaps you will not comprehend the words that I am using. Perhaps you are not there at all. Still, I will continue to shout out my confession, to you and to the One God, as long as my voice persists. Would that I could write, but there is no vellum, no ink, no light. My arms are chained to the prison wall, spread above me. It is futile, futile. But, perhaps, if you can hear me, perhaps, if you can comprehend, my memory will live on for another year, another day, another hour. My time grows shorter now. I can hear the drums beating, the drunken peasants cheering. Even in this dungeon there is the sickening smell of burning flesh. They have already begun their festival day. Soon, perhaps, I may be served up for their amusement. Are you astonished at how I address you? Are you amazed that a simple peasant girl should use such flowery language? Ah, but then, my mother was a very learned lady. She instructed me in reading, writing, Greek, Latin, the proper usage of our own crude tongue, and all the arts: mathematics, philosophy, medicine and rhetoric. She had a library, oh, such a library, of ancient, secret texts: Plato, Aristotle, Sophocles, Virgil, Ovid, all those worthy men and more, and Sappho, lovely Sappho, the sweet voice of the Goddess. All those lovely books, waiting to be read some day. They used them for kindling, when they burned her. What they did to my mother was unspeakable, and yet, if we do not speak of it, how will we ever know, ever learn, ever stop that horror? So I will speak of things that should not be spoken, tell of things that should not be told, reveal the mysteries that must remain forever hidden. And you, hanging in the cell next to me, my unseen, unknown companion, you cannot run away from me, you cannot cover your ears. You can, perhaps, scream loudly enough to drown out my exposition. But, I pray you, do not be too hasty to condemn, too quick to turn away, too eager to avert your sensibilities from what I am about to say. Let me begin, then, with my mother, for is that not how all of us begin? Well, I know, before that, before my birth, there must have been some dark deed, some act of love or passion, rape or seduction, or perhaps a ritual coupling. I never knew who my father was. Oh, there were men who came to my mother's bed, not the rude peasants from the village, not the crude swordsmen from the castle, but huge men, terrifying in dark hooded robes, terrifying even more when they shed those robes to reveal gaunt, pale bodies. They were tall, almost skeletally thin, with gigantic hands with nails like claws, and enormous phalli. Does it shock you that I should speak of them thus? What could shock either of us, after what has been done to us? Has not every crevice of your body been probed with flesh and iron, strained to the breaking point? Have they not poured their semen, their urine, their bile, into every cavity, have they not attempted to burst you with their passion and disdain? Can there be any secrets of our bodies that remain any source of pain or pleasure that has not been exposed? We have been rendered up as an entertainment to stoke or sate their dark desires. Soon, our broken bodies will be consumed in the pyre of their hypocritical self righteousness. But I digress. They would send a messenger, these tall pale men, a crow, perhaps a raven, which descended with a black ribbon attached to its foot. My mother would detach the ribbon, replace it with a white one, and prepare herself for them. When they departed, there would be gold coins upon my mother's bed, coins with strange patterns, pentagons and cosmic eyes and inscriptions in a language that was neither Greek nor Latin. She would laugh bitterly at those coins, for she could not spend them in the village. So she secreted them away, in a jar kept hidden in the floor beneath her bed. I did not understand, if she could not spend the coins, why she continued her dark commerce. Sometimes, when it had not rained for weeks, the elders from the village would come to visit us. She would summon a dove, calling in a special way, and tie a white ribbon around its leg. The next night, one of those gaunt, pale men would come, perhaps two or three of them, and the next morning my mother would be sobbing just as we now sob,. But then the rains would come. Real coins she garnered as a midwife and a healer. She took me with her on her rounds and I saw many a tiny, wrinkled head emerge from between a peasant's thighs. She taught me the secret ways of roots and herbs, of bark and skin. She taught me how to fashion a poultice from moss, how to wash a wound with honey and urine from a donkey, how to seal flesh with fire and to cut it with stone. Iron she disdained; her blades were made with black obsidian, so sharp that they could slice through bone without resistance. Sometimes, when our larder was becoming emptier than usual, she would go into the village on an evening and return inebriated, singing, her clothing in disarray and with a bag full of the copper coins that would buy us foodstuffs for the winter. I never celebrated birthdays. I would not even have known about the custom, had it not been mentioned in some of the tales that I read. My mother never spoke to me about my age. I asked her once and she refused to answer. After that, I never questioned her. I had friends, among the peasants, who seemed to be the same size, the same age as I. But their bodies began to swell into womanhood, and mine remained childlike, taller, perhaps, than any of the others, but not as rounded. Boys found my friends, and they would whisper, giggling, of what they had done, or attempted to do. It was no mystery to me. I had seen what those strange men did to my mother, and I was ready, more than ready, to part my flesh. But no boy came for me. My friends drifted away, no longer children. I withdrew then, to my mother's books and to her garden. But once, one of the men who visited her, one of those strange, pale men, caught me watching him as he impaled my mother. He caught me with his eyes and I could not look away from him. He caught me with his eyes and I started to walk into that room. I was only wearing one garment; a shift made of roughly woven linen and I removed it. I stood there, naked, caught in his gaze. I wanted to see how he had buried himself in my mother's flesh, how she was stretched around him, strained as wide as those peasant women giving birth but I could not tear my eyes away from his. I walked forward and he touched me with one of those great, clawed fingers. It ran across my nipples, searching for some hint of breasts and I could feel them harden. It ran down lower, to the bottom of my belly, and I opened my legs for him in invitation. My mother screamed. In a blink, one of her very sharp knives was poised against his testicles. He laughed. "Soon enough." I remember those words now with a shudder. It was the first time I had ever heard one of those strange men speak. His voice was no more than a shrill whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves -- a tiny sound to emanate from such a huge body. "Soon enough. Will you observe us, little one?" I watched. I understood at last that it was not for coin that my mother invited those demons into her bed. * * * * * IT WAS THAT SUMMER that my education truly began. The priest in the village, that stupid, foolish man, claimed that we could fly, that we flew on broomsticks, or some such silliness. I am sure that some of us may have confessed to such a thing, under torture or the threat of torture, but it is not true. Our magic cannot defy the laws of the One God. But one night in midsummer, when the moon was full, the night air still and warm, we could shed our clothes, my mother and I. We could walk naked through the meadows, the damp flowers caressing our thighs. Oh, the pleasure to walk like that, to let the fertile Earth make love to us with her springtime bounty! Then, standing in the middle of the meadow, waist deep in the cool wet grass, my mother called, a silent call that she tried to teach me but I never learned, and the mares came, the night mares. Yes, there is such a thing -- great black horses, larger even than the ones that carry knights in armour, but not plodding like those stolid beasts -- terrifying in their speed and power. We rode the mares, clinging to their thick, knotted manes, not directing them, letting them go wherever they would take us. Did we fly? The meadows rushed by so swiftly, there was such a confusion of earth and sky, that it seemed like flying. Once, it seemed we leapt off of a tremendous height and floated above the valley, suspended by some unknown force until we reached the hilltop on the other side. But it could not have been. It must have been my fear and my exhilaration that made them seem like Pegasus. It was only as the sky began to brighten, and the pace of our steeds began to slow, that I realized that we were far away from that meadow, naked, with no control over our destination. I felt a sudden, uncontrollable panic. At that very moment, my horse reared up and cast me off into the mud, and my mother jumped down to see if I had been injured. The horses fled then at the threat of dawn, galloping away as they called to us with shrill derision. My mother tried her silent summons, but to no avail. We were left alone on a muddy forest path as the summer sun announced its return. My mother sighed and grumbled that we would have to walk the rest of the way. I was filled with questions. The way to where? It had not occurred to me that our wild midnight ride might have some destination. Was it my doubt, or the arrival of daylight, that had spooked our steeds? After all, it would not seem proper for a night mare to be present in the day. Then, just when all seemed lost, a unicorn appeared. Yes, I know that these are considered beasts of fable only. But there it was, as white and lovely as ever I saw in the illustrations in my mother's books. My mother gave me a look that was somewhat sceptical. Blushing, I approached the beast. It bowed its head and let me mount it. But it would not let my mother come too close. So we went on that way, my mother walking boldly through the woods, proud in the perfection of her body, like a Grecian goddess, and I trailing at a sufficient distance to shield my mount from her total lack of virginity. It was only when the road began to climb that I comprehended our destination. The woods were so dense, the trees so enormous that they obscured the mountains that lay beyond. But suddenly we went around a bend and the woods were gone. There was no foliage at all except for a few patches of moss softening the rock. There, ahead of us, not far away, was a structure made of a stone that seemed to absorb all of the daylight around it. I call it a structure, because I do not have a word to describe it as a building. A castle, perhaps. Our poor town had a little castle to guard it, one tower and a pitiful walled court barely large enough for all to crowd into in case of danger. It was, as my mother grumbled, a place to assemble to be raped and slaughtered. Every year, the swordsmen from the castle would run drills. The peasants would grab pitchforks or scythes, the women and children would huddle in the square. We would spend the night guarding against some imaginary enemy. It seemed quite clear that a band of a hundred armed men or less would overwhelm us. But this was a structure of a different order altogether -- not cobbled out of brick and boulders from the river, but made of massive, cubical blocks of stone, each larger than I. They were unimaginably heavy and placed together so finely that there was no hint of space between them. I could not comprehend how those stones had been brought together to make those walls. When we came closer .... I am sure you have seen the cathedral to the One God that graces our miserable capital city, that building with a beauty that belies the depravity and hypocrisy of its occupants. Yes, you must have stared in wonder at the vast chamber of stone, the roof floating so far above. This hall was vaster still, so large that the eye could not comprehend how large it might be. Beyond, those great stone walls stretched forever, crawling up over the ridges of the mountains. There was no moat. There were no guards on battlements, not even battlements where guards could have been. There was just a large, flat meadow -- a vast expanse that might have been green grass later in the season. The unicorn refused to step out onto that field. My mother went on ahead, impatiently. I started to dismount, but she stopped me. It was important, she assured me, that they see me seated upon the beast. They? Who were they? Why would it matter if they saw me on the unicorn? If there were answers to be had, it would be at the other side of that forbidding meadow. But getting across that broad, open stretch was going to be a problem. My mount showed no enthusiasm for moving forward. I gave the reluctant beast a little kick of encouragement and it took a tentative step or two onto the withered turf. It felt as if a storm was approaching, even though the sky was clear. Once, I had felt my skin tingle like that. My mother had screamed, and pulled me away, to watch a bolt of lightning strike the spot where I had been standing. "Don't worry," my mother muttered. "If they were going to kill us, they probably would have done it by now." Yes, I remember those exact words, especially her use of "probably," and my timid suggestion that perhaps they, whoever they were, had decided to save us for later. That merely blasting us on the meadow was too boring for them. I remember the laugh my mother gave. She wanted to hug me, to reassure me, but the unicorn would have none of it. It nearly bolted back into the heather when she approached it. So my mother got behind it and herded it closer to that strange, sinister citadel. But we reached a point of impasse about halfway across that desolate field. The unicorn's loathing of my mother had reached a balance point with its fear of whatever lay in the center. My mother came closer and closer, careful to keep herself directly between the unicorn and the citadel -- finally, she was right upon us, almost touching the beast. Even that was not enough to make it achieve any further progress. It simply knelt down, with me still on it and refused to move. It had been a long night, a long ride. We had not stopped to relieve ourselves. I was tired, trembling with fear. There was no end in sight. I had needed to urinate for a long time, a very long time, but there had been no opportunity. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a loud, sinister snarl, a terrible noise that I only later realized was a burst of laugher. It was too much. There, in that open meadow, in view of my mother, in full view of the citadel, in full view of whoever had emitted that awful roar of derision, I lost control. I defiled the unicorn. That was the last straw for the poor beast. It tossed me off and ran back into the shelter of the boulders. No amount of magic was ever going to make it return. I lay there, naked, on my back, in the mud that I had just created and the laughter came again. Except that it was shortened by the sound of a loud slap, then a scream of pain from my mother. I had closed my eyes when things started to go wrong and I had kept them closed. Somehow, not seeing my own humiliation made it less humiliating. But now I opened them to see my mother rubbing her wrist, and one of them standing next to her, on guard, it would seem, to fend off the next attempt at a blow. I should not have been surprised -- it was, of course, one of the huge, gaunt creatures who had followed the raven to my mother's bed. However, this one was not so large, no taller, really, than my mother. His attitude showed that he took her as a serious threat -- his nose was bloody, it would seem, from the result of the first blow that she had delivered. "You have no right!" They both shouted the same thing, almost in unison. "You have no right to laugh at us!" My mother got in the next word. "You have no right to hit me," the boy, for such it was, replied. He rubbed his nose, then looked, startled, at the blood on his hand. He had not realized how much damage my mother had done to him. "I have brought my daughter here for the festival, as I was summoned to do." My mother drew herself up so that she was a bit taller than he. "For the festival." He did not seem so much a boy, now. Perhaps, like I, he was much older than his body would have indicated. "You are late." "Late?" My mother seemed perplexed. "Midsummer is tomorrow." "Yes but there are preparations." "The mares would not run before tonight." "Perhaps. It has been a while since we have performed the ceremony. It is difficult to find someone who might be suitable." He frowned at me. "I fear that you have inconvenienced yourself for nothing." "Not so!" My mother was indignant. "You saw that she rode the unicorn." "Not into the temple square." Now, you can imagine how I felt, lying in the mud of my own making, listening to this conversation. I had read somewhat of midsummer festivals and the role that virgins played in them. "In any case," the boy added, "I have come to settle the matter." "You?" My mother seemed very dubious. "They sent a boy?" "Yes," he sneered, "a mere boy." He shed his cloak then, and it was obvious that he was nearing the end of his boyhood. He was erect, engorged, not as huge as his elders, but big enough, larger than any of the peasant boys. "Just what do you mean to do?" It was I that asked the question. "Why, my little one," he sneered. It was an odd choice of phrase. We were about of equal stature, he nearly as slender. "My little one, I am going to settle once and for all the question of your possible virginity." "This is not proper!" My mother moved towards him and the air around her crackled. She gasped, and sat down abruptly on the hard, bristly dirt. "Proper?" he sneered. "You have brought her here and you dare ask what might be proper? In any case, I will do nothing without your daughter's, do you have a name, my dear, consent." "Fiona," I said, and my mother echoed the word consent at the same time. "Fiona," the boy repeated, "ask your mother what is going to happen to you inside that temple." There was a long silence. I thought about getting up. I thought about what I had seen my mother do. The boy had taken a few steps towards me, so close now that he was standing astride me, and I sat up, so close to him that he was almost brushing my lips with that improbably large erection. There was a little drop of fluid, just at the tip, and I could smell how it was chalky and sweet at the same time. I reached out my tongue and gave it a little lick, but another drop appeared almost at once. I licked off that one also. "No!" my mother snarled. "Stop it! If you require satisfaction, I will provide it." "Ask her," the boy repeated. But it was difficult to ask, at that point. He had put his hands on my head, very gently, and urged me closer to him. I was amazed how he could be hard and soft at the same time, like cushioned steel. My teeth parted to let him enter, but I let them scrape enough that he winced a bit as he slid back toward the base of my tongue. "I do not know," my mother said, sparing me the effort of removing him from my mouth. "Do you?" "See!" the boy was triumphant, "I'm doing her a favour." But then, just at that moment, he exploded up into the roof of my mouth. A Witch's Tale This is an utterly silly tale about a young man and girl who claims to be a witch, but it's really just about the sex. Enjoy! This is a story about the time I seduced a witch. Well, there might be some question about who seduced whom, but the outcome was the same regardless of who gets credit (or blame) for initiating the process. I met her in a café where she was working behind the counter as a barista. I guessed her to be in her early-thirties, about 5-3 or 5-4. She was quite trim with the cutest ass you've ever seen squeezed tightly into her Levis and nice little round boobs that looked like they wanted to spill out of the dark green tank top she was wearing There was a mass of dark red hair coiled on top of her head. Very fetching indeed. Since it was mid-afternoon, and the place was pretty much empty, I struck up a conversation, and it wasn't long before we were both flirting shamelessly. Eventually I worked up the courage to ask her when she got off work. "How about now?" she said. "Won't you get fired?" "Not a chance," she responded. "First, my shift ended half an hour ago. I was just hanging around here to flirt with you. I think it's your eyes. It's not the color. It's the way you use them." "Also I cast a spell on my boss. He isn't going to do anything to me except follow me around like a puppy dog in love. I almost feel bad about it. He's pathetic, but it's one way to keep a job when you really aren't all that interested in working." "Let's get the hell out of here," I said. "I want to know more about what you see in my eyes, and I want to know about this spell shit. I know a bar around the corner where we can get something stronger than coffee." "It's a deal," she said as she hustled around the end of the coffee bar. She shrugged off her barista apron, tossing it at a hook as we went out the door. Before we reached the end of the block she had released her hair from its constraints and it fell in a great chaotic dark red mass that reached the middle of her back. We grabbed a table in the back of the bar and ordered drinks from the bar maid—beer for me, but Rachel wanted a gin and tonic. When the drinks came she took a long pull and then leaned forward on the table, giving me quite a view of her tits. I leaned back, enjoying the view, and said, "Before we go any further, I'm Samuel. What shall I call you?" "Sam," she said. "If you keep doing what you are doing with your eyes you can call me almost anything you want and I will pay rapt attention to you. But most people call me Rachel these days." "What do you mean by 'these days?' Do you change names regularly?" "No, not more often than every fifty years or so." "Hmm. So how many names have you had?" "Lets see," she said as she held up her fingers to count. There, was Agatha, Beatrice, Desiree, Juliana (ooh, she was a bit of a slut), Margot, Susana, Morgana, and a bunch more I can't think of." I had been counting without using my fingers and I responded, "That makes you at least 350 years old. How's that work?" "Actually I am more like 1,400 years old. Lets see, I'll be 1,432 next Tuesday. I've forgotten a few names." "You're very well preserved," I said. "Who is your plastic surgeon?" "Nobody. These are original equipment," she said as she pushed her tits up with her hands. "Want to see them?" "Hmm. Maybe later, but first there are a few other things I want to understand about this 1,400 years old shit." As I said that, I was actually thinking about how I would like to suck on her tits. At the same time I noticed her nipples getting hard and pressing against her thin t-shirt. "Yes, and I also read minds," she said with a wicked smile. "What?" "You were saying one thing and thinking something entirely different. You were talking about how old I claimed to be, but you were thinking about how much you wanted to suck on my tits." "No way," I said. "Oh yeah," she said. "You're still thinking about my tits and especially my nipples which are making a tent in my t-shirt." "Shit. She's right," I thought. "Okay, I guess I'm busted," I said. "You got me on impure thoughts, but how was I supposed to know you could read my mind?" "Well, I told you I cast a spell on my boss, so you should have known I was a witch, and witches can read minds." "Somehow I suspect I know less about witches than you think I should," I responded. "Well, some people are a bit ignorant on the topic. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on your ignorance, but those oh so sexy eyes of yours homed right in on my nipples as they responded to your nasty thoughts." I was loosing ground in this exchange rapidly. "So let me get this straight," I said. "First, you offered to show me your tits. Second, being a gentleman, I tried to change the topic and ask you about your age." ("How gentlemanly was that?" I wondered). "Third," I continued, "your nipples got hard when you caught me staring at them. From that you conclude that I should know that you were reading my mind and knew that I was thinking about sucking on your tits? Have I got this right?" "Plus I told you I can cast spells," she responded. "Do your nipples always get hard when you realize some guy you just met is thinking about sucking on your tits?" "Well, when he has eyes like yours, yeah pretty much, based on 1,400 plus years of experience. But lets be candid here. Were you or were you not thinking about sucking on my tits?" "I told you a minute ago. You got me on an impure thoughts charge," I said. "Honestly, I was thinking about how nice it would be to circle my tongue slowly around each boob until I worked my way in to your nipple and then to suck on it while I shoved two fingers up your snatch." "I knew it!" she exclaimed with a smile. "Let me buy next round," she said, changing the subject. Without waiting for me to respond she slid out of her chair and walked with a really slinky walk over to the bar. She really had a great ass. Did I mention what a great ass she had? Yeah, I guess I did, but it really was a great ass—not a huge ass, and not one of those really tight asses. Just nice and round and a great wiggle to her walk. "I guess that is what 1,400 years of experience will do for you," I thought as I watched her wiggle over to the bar. "Oh bullshit, she can't be a day over 35. This whole conversation is ridiculous." She returned in a moment with a drink in each hand and as soon as she set the drinks down, the bar maid showed up with another round. "Doubles?" I asked. "Sure," she said. "Why waste time on ordering." "Well this girl may be full of shit," I thought, "but she has the right attitude about drinking." "So you are 1,400 years old, cast spells, drink like a fish, read minds, and have a really cute ass," I said. "Does that about sum you up?" "First," she said, "It's 1,432, next week, and there are a lot of other things you should know about me. "Such as?" "I can read and speak Latin, Greek, Samarian and a dozen modern languages including Japanese, Chinese and Finish. I have a PhD from Harvard in linguistics and another one from Oxford in physics. I have pilot's licenses for multiengine jet aircraft and to bring ships into harbors in New York, Rotterdam, Sydney, Rio, and San Francisco. I used to work in porn flicks. Also I used to fuck Newton, Shakespeare, Lincoln, Kennedy, Abby Hoffman, and a whole bunch of other people you would know about." "Which Kennedy?" I asked with skepticism in my voice. "Actually several of them," she giggled, "but I meant Jack. Actually his old man was the best of the lot. God he had a big cock and he could last forever. Jack just didn't have the old man's staying power. Plus he had that bad back problem." "So tell me about this witch shit?" I asked, ignoring her palpably ridiculous story about fucking most of the Kennedy clan. "Well, when I was about 15 years old I discovered I could make things happen just by thinking about them. Being a typical horny 15 year old, I quickly focused in on making men want to seduce me. I mean what's the point in bending spoons like that idiot Uri Geller? So I started out by seducing half the men in town, but I got a little carried away with that, and the women folk were threatening to tie me to a stake and burn me. So I left and went to the court of the Baron who controlled my end of Germany. I signed on as a maid, but this time I got smart. I used my powers to seduce the women rather than the men. Once I found myself in bed on every Tuesday afternoon with the Baroness, I could get pretty much anything I wanted." "How long did that gig last?" I asked. "Do you want my whole life story?" she asked as she knocked back her third gin and tonic. "No, I think that is enough for now, but how about showing me a spell," I said. "Sure, what would you like?" "Wait. Don't cast it on me," I said. This chick was beginning to freak me out. I mean, I didn't really believe her bullshit, but who wants to take a chance of being turned into a frog. "Well this is kind of a slow afternoon and there is no one in this bar but the bar maid and barkeep," I thought, "so I guess it will have to be one or both of them". "You want me to get the bar maid and the guy behind the bar to fuck?" she asked. "Stop doing that. This mind reading stuff is creepy." "But that is what you want, isn't it?" she asked. "Well can you do it?" "Sure, no problem. Now that you mention it, it might be fun." She motioned the bar maid over and ordered another round of drinks. Then she crooked her finger and signaled to the bar maid to lean over so she could whisper to her. As the bar maid leaned over, I thought her big tits were going to fall out of her low cut top. The bar maid giggled and walked off to the bar. "What did you say?" I asked. "I told her she had beautiful tits and the bar tender was really hot for her. Then I told her that there is a big tip in it for her if she can fuck him before we leave, and I whispered a Latin spell." "What about the bar tender." "He's male. He'll fuck her." "Maybe he's a Mormon," I said. "They fuck too. I once spent a month shagging Joseph Smith's little brother and wife number 11." "Maybe he is gay." "Hmmm, good point," she said. "It's only ten percent odds, but lets not risk it. I'll throw a spell on him too." She turned in her chair and looked hard at the bar tender while she mumbled something that sounded like Latin to me. "Was that Latin?" "No. Samarian. They had the coolest spells." She hopped out of her chair and slid in next to me on the bench I was sitting on. She grabbed my hand and pulled it down to her leg. Being a gentleman, I began to caress the inside of her thigh. Meanwhile, across the room the bartender and the barmaid grabbed a couple of bar stools and she leaned over towards him so that he could get a good look at her tits. They had their heads together and were whispering something to each other. "Are you sure your spell is working?" I asked Rachel. "Oh yeah," she responded. "How can you tell?" "You wouldn't believe the dirty things he whispered to her." "Really? What did she say in response?" "She was even dirtier." "So what did he say?" "Well, among other things, he told her she has great tits and he asked her if she would titty fuck him." "Ooh. That is kind of nasty for the middle of the afternoon when they are both supposed to be working. What did she say? Did she tell him to go fuck himself?" "Hardly. She told him she would love to titty fuck him, but first he was going to have to eat her pussy and then she described in detail how she wanted him to do it. Apparently she really loves to have her pussy licked." "This girl is so full of shit," I thought. As I thought that, Rachel began to stroke the erection that was straining against my pants. "Hmm, something seems to be working on you too and I didn't even have to cast a spell." "What can I say? I guess I'm just easy." Rachel continued to stroke my cock while I worked my hand up the inside of her thigh until I reached her crotch. I found she had undone her Levis, and her panties were soaked. "It doesn't look like I'm the only one at this table that is horny," I said. "Uuuum. That feels good, but watch the show at the bar. We don't want to waste a couple of perfectly good spells here." The barkeep had been nuzzling the bar maid's neck but now he reached into the top of her dress and began to massage her tits. She didn't make a move to stop him. Instead she reached down and began to rub his cock through his trousers. I was beginning to wonder whether there really was something to this spell shit. Rachel whispered, "Oh yeah the spells are really working now." As she spoke she opened my belt and zipper to get better access to my rock hard cock. The bar maid pulled her top off and shucked off her bra, so we all had a good view of her tits. The barkeep responded by leaning forward and sucking on her nipples while he slid one hand under her dress to start rubbing her pussy. As we watched, Rachel kept massaging my dick through my boxers. I reached over and begin to fondle her tits with the hand that wasn't massaging her pussy through her soggy panties. "Mmm. That feels good," she said. Then she pulled off her top and her bra and I leaned over and began to suck on her nipples. She was making little whimpering noises. Then she pushed my head away saying, "No, lets watch the show." I pulled my lips away from her tits and looked over to see the bar maid sucking on the bartender's dick. She was really going at it. We could hear the slurping noises from where we were. By this time Rachel had pulled my dick out of my boxers and was giving me a fabulous hand job. "If you keep that up, I will get ahead of things here." "Well we wouldn't want that would we," she said. "What I really want is for you to fuck me while we watch those two." The other two were naked by now and the bar maid had hopped up on the bar and spread her legs. He was finger fucking her and she was leaning back and groaning as she stared at the ceiling fan. Then she said, "Come on, you said would eat me." Without a moments hesitation the bar keep dropped his head so his face was in her pussy. He was obviously began giving her a good tongue lashing while he continued to finger fuck her. The bar maid was moaning and crying, "Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit, this is good!" Rachel and I got up and stripped off the rest of our clothes. I sat on a chair that we turned sideways to the action on the other side of the bar so we could both watch. Rachel climbed on and settled her hot slippery cunt over my dick. It felt so fucking good as it just sort of wrapped itself around my cock. She spread her legs wide so that she slid all the way down to my balls. I started to pump and she said, "No—let's just sit and enjoy the show." So we sat there trying to hold still with my rock hard cock shoved up her cunt and her tits pressed against my chest, while we watched the bartender slurp at the barmaid's cunt. Sitting still with your cock buried in a hot slippery cunt is really a lot harder than it sounds. "God, this is way better than porn," I whispered to Rachel. "You got that right," she responded. The barmaid was making all the noise she could. "Oh shit, that is good. Don't stop. Fuck me with your fingers. Ohhhh. Fuck. Yes! Oh, now lick my clitty. Yes that's it." Ohhhh Shiiiiit" she finally screamed as she climaxed. The bar tender just kept licking her and she kept cumming until she just couldn't take it anymore and pushed his head away. "Fuck, where did you learn to eat pussy like that?" she asked him. Now the bartender wanted his. He ignored her question about his cunnilingus skills, and he seemed to have forgotten about his desire for a titty fuck. Instead he leaned her over the bar stool and shoved his big cock into her pussy from behind. As we watched them fuck, my cock was still buried in Rachel's pussy and I was doing my best to hold it more or less still, aside from the occasional involuntary twitch. I began to rub both of her nipples. At first I just flicked them, but then I grabbed each one between a forefinger and a thumb and twisted. That really drove her wild. She started humping my cock and whimpering, and while we could hear all the noise the other couple was making, we were focused on each other. After a minute or two of my driving her nuts with my fingers on her tits she said, between gasps, "I want you to fuck me from behind like the bartender is doing." "Shit yes!" I said. "I love to fuck in that position." (Actually, I love to fuck in almost any position and I'm sure Rachel knew that.) Rachel hopped off my lap and leaned over the table with her ass pointed at me. I stepped up behind her and slid my cock into her pussy, holding that cute little round ass of hers with both hands. I had to bend my knees a little to get down to the right level, but I knew that was going to be fine because it would allow me to put some real force into my thrusts. "Fuck me! Now! Fuck me hard! Don't hold anything back. I want to cum now!" she said. I could hear the bar tender slapping his legs and balls against the bar maid's ass and I began doing the same thing with Rachel. Her cunt felt so good. How could a 1,400 year old cunt be that hot, tight, and wet? She was crying and screaming, "Fuck me. Oh yes. That's it. Fuck me harder, harder! Keep it up. Oh shit I'm cumming." I felt her cunt clamp on my cock and that set me off. I pulled her ass back towards me with both hands while I rammed my cock as deep into her as it would go and groaned as I shot stream after stream of hot cum into Rachel. We both slumped on the table and then slid onto the bench behind it. The bartender and barmaid were also spent. They had slid into each other's arms and were on the floor. After a few minutes, we got dressed and left a bunch of cash on the table for our hosts. As we walked out the barmaid looked up and said, "See you for coffee in the morning Rach." I looked at Rachel and said, "You fraud. You're not a witch." She looked at me sweetly and said, "So, did you have a better way to spend your afternoon?" I laughed and slapped her on her cute little ass. "By the way though," she said, "Old man Kennedy was a better fuck than you. You're good, but he was better. Then she turned and waved her hand at the bar and it was suddenly full of people. "Where'd they come from?" I asked. "Oh, they were here all along. I just cast a spell that kept the four of us from seeing them." "Could they see us?" I asked, noticing that there were a couple of cops at the bar. Rachel laughed, "Duh. I haven't made that mistake since I fucked King Arthur in front of the Round Table. God was Guinevere pissed." Maybe here was something to this witch business, but I still didn't believe the part about fucking Joe Kennedy.