Like the first witch, she offered herself to me then. Trying to be kind, I rejected her. She sighed and was led over to the side of the room to keep the first reject company.
The third witch was a fire-eating pyromaniac. First she set fire to herself. Then each of the remaining nine witches singed various parts of her body. It was left to me to provide the final blister on her derrière with a hot poker before she joined the first two on the sidelines.
Witches number four and five were anal and oral respectively. Number four had the most shapely and delectable posterior I’ve ever seen. High, firm, ultra-feminine, it was a rump par excellence. She filled it with everything from candles to a knotted rope, a pointed stake and a heated iron. Then, less sadistically, she ministered to the posteriors of the remaining eight girls. Finally, she raised my robe and—playful Wench that she was—went at me tongue-in- cheek.
Number five was a contortionist. First she laved her own breast tips. Then she folded herself like a pretzel, mouth to nether-mouth, and it was hard to say which was feeding off which. This girl really knew the art of having fun all by herself.
But she wasn’t selfish about it. Her appetite was insatiable. Each of the remaining seven witches provided the feast in turn. You guessed it. I was dessert.
The sixth witch was frigid—in a way-in a way that was self-induced, that is. Two cakes of ice were brought on for her bit. The way she moved between them, lying down on one while the other was put on top of her, was calculated to melt the ice, and that’s what it did. After a while she took a pick, shaped an icicle, and impaled herself on it. While she moved over it, the other witches kept heaping shavings of ice over the rest of her body. When she’d melted her own icicle, she carved out six others and turned each of the other girls into an icebox.
It gave me the shivers. And when she approached me with a pail of ice, that didn’t exactly warm me up either. When she took my hand and guided it to her breast, I realized for the first time what is really meant by the phrase “cold as a witch’s tit.” Believe me, I have never felt anything colder! And when she applied the ice to my golden freeze machine, the result was nil. I froze her out and she went off to the sidelines and acknowledged failure. Wica had withheld his frosty “blessing.”
Number seven was a foot fetishist and easier to satisfy. She toed herself to ecstatic fruition, and then nibbled her way, foot by foot, around the remainder of the group. After which she was arch with my arches, seemed to get high on my heels, and was anything but callous with my corns. I gave her the boot for a blessing, and she hot-footed it to the sidelines.
The eighth witch was an animal lover. Specifically, she was hung up on a trained bull—a very, very well-trained bull indeed. It was led in by two of the other witches and joined the girl in front of me. They were quite a duo.
The girl was on the zoftig side, hefty without being sloppy fat. The bull was also pretty chunky. The girl displayed frontage the size of egotistical watermelons. The bull was chesty in his own right. The girl’s hips and legs and derrière were generous and sensual. The bull’s lower quarters were haunchy and muscular and to a cow I suppose they would have had a certain raunchy appeal. The girl was built extremely large where the nitty meets the gritty. In the same area the bull was so endowed as to give any man an inferiority complex.
The mating was truly remarkable. If, at its height, the girl was full of bull, she didn’t seem to mind it. On the contrary she hung on his horny horns for dear life. But then Ferdinand was no steer himself. Tmly it was a bull session to end all bull sessions.
Nervously, I wondered what plans she and the bull had for the rest of us. Simple. Ferdinand was an affectionate bovine. While she held on to his bull-hood, he licked each of the girls in turn. Don’t misunderstand. He was no hand-kisser. His six pounds of tongue never missed the target.
Then the bull was brought over to pay homage to Wica. After a swipe or two, I faked a reaction. It wasn’t my dish. The witches bought the pretense, but Ferdinand looked really hurt as he was led away without receiving my “blessing” on his tonsils.
The ninth witch was the recipient of “The Golden Shower.” First she filled a pot and bestowed it on herself. Then each of the remaining three witches squatted over her and baptized her in turn. Finally, I added a few unwilling drops and she too retired to the side of the room.
The next witch was tickled pink. A large-boned girl, and a trifle on the fleshy side, she was a lot of woman and a barrel of laughs. She came on with long feathers which she applied to her ribs, her armpits, and then more intimate parts of her body. Using one of them as a Spanish Tickler, this jolly Jane got her jollies to the tune of her own giggles galore.
The two remaining witches then each gave the ticklish tootsie a feather-dusting turn with the same result. As Wica, I provided the coup de grâce which came off like a Kraft-Ebbing17 case history of ovarian hysteria. The ticklish situation left me with a sympathy itch of my own which I had to fight to keep from scratching.
There were only two witches left in action now. Doña Maria was one. The other was a voluptuous Moorish girl with skin which gleamed like polished mahogany and close-cropped black, curly hair. She threw off her robe boldly and seized hold of Doña Maria fervently.
Although Doña Maria didn’t seem to turn on during the lesbian activity which followed, she was passively acquiescent. She allowed the eager Mooress to pull her to the floor and lay there quietly while her garment was removed. She responded as if by rote to the variety of intimate caresses which followed.
The tawny Moorish witch kissed Doña Maria on the lips. Then she stroked the red-haired girl’s large breasts until the nipples were erect. She lowered her mouth again and fastened it over first one and then the other breast tip. Expertly, her slender red tongue flicked at each of them in turn.
The Mooress kissed the slight rise of Doña Maria’s pink and white belly. She trailed kisses down from the navel to the triangle of dark red curls. Her dark-skinned hands trailing up the milky whiteness of Dofña Maria’s thighs provided an erotically stirring contrast. Under their urgings, the thighs parted and now the fingers vanished from sight. They reappeared and the Mooress’ head ducked down to replace them.
Doña Maria’s whole body trembled. The dark head moved in small circles. The hands were lost between the Mooress’ own mahogany thighs now. Then she raised her head and the position was changed.
With the Mooress calling the shots, the two witches fitted themselves together scissor fashion. Their fulcrums pressed hotly together, they rocked back and forth, first in a horizontal and then in a sitting position. In the sitting position the Mooress squeezed Doña Maria’s luscious breasts, kissed them and toyed with the distended nipples. She fastened her mouth over Doña Maria’s and her posterior was a blur of motion as her locked legs forced the redhead to bounce forward and backward in a frenzy of erotic contact. Finally the Mooress screamed with the top pitch of her ecstasy and both bodies froze in a long moment of fruition. They broke apart then. It was over.
The Mooress led Doña Maria over to me. The idea, I gathered, was for me to participate in a continuation of their activities. I realized now that as Wica I had the option of withholding my “blessing” as well as bestowing it. I chose to withhold it. The Mooress went off to the sidelines, muttering some early-day black power curse to herself.
Now Doña Maria was the only witch left. She stood before me magnificently naked. It seemed I’d come down to the wire. Wica had to make a choice among the twelve witches. That was the purpose of the ceremony. I had to have sex with one of them according to my preference of girl and specialty.