Witch Hunter. Willow Sears

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      He watched silently, stroking his pointed goatee. He liked the goatee. Very few could carry off such a devilish beard, and he was definitely one of them. Not only did it bring length and sharpness to his already strong jaw, but the sheer blackness of it seemed to make his steel-blue eyes even more piercing, if that were possible. His eyes defined him. They were mesmerising to all. Once people stared into them, and this was something they couldn’t help but do, his word became their command. It had been so since his earliest days.

      ‘Take that prick from your mouth and move on to the next one,’ he said, and she did.

      He could see that her eyes were bright, manic even. He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. Always look at the eyes. All truth is stored there, on display to everyone, all of the time. His were the only exception; his only ever said, Be very scared. A silver thread of saliva joined her lips to the erect penis she had just been sucking. The wet shaft bore testament to the fact that she had avidly swallowed the whole slender length of it. She was breathing loudly and still staring hungrily at the erection as if she wasn’t yet ready to stop feasting upon it. Then her focus changed as she saw the next one waiting in line. She grasped the just-sucked prick and used it as a support whilst she shuffled sideways upon her knees. She even kept hold of it as she sank her mouth onto the new prick and let out a loud moan of joy.

      A little darker blue and his eyes would have had a different effect on people. He might even have been considered angelic – by those who judge character by physical appearance. As it was they made him a demon. They were vivid ice-cold coronas around a black oversized centre. The ring was pale but intense, captivating and unique but unnerving. If they reflected his soul then he must be a man with a heart of steel. Was it too much to say that if they had been just a little darker blue he would have had a completely different life?

      People always defer to size but he had been put on a pedestal way before he grew so large. From his earliest years he learned to dominate his peers, to create a mysterious power around the eyes. He soon began to feel contempt for those around him, for the way they grovelled and blinked and looked away. He became a manipulator, a tyrant, a bully. What else is there to do when people allow it so freely? He was nearly six and a half feet tall when he finally stopped growing. Never gangly, he was always wide and solidly built. He learned boxing after he left school and could have been professional if he hadn’t considered the sport beneath him. He just wanted to know how to use his fists most effectively.

      At university he joined a club that taught sword-fighting. Not wimpy fencing, with its weird tight mummy-suits and camp touchés, but genuinely useful ancient techniques, like how to wield a broadsword in anger. The club was full of Dungeons and Dragons freaks and those obsessed with Arthurian legend. He scared the life out of all of them. They called him ‘the Kurgan’ after the villain from the Highlander film. The comparison swelled him. He made himself a mock-up of the Kurgan’s armour, fashioned from black leather and chainmail taken from others at the club. In secret he would dress in it and parade around in front of a long mirror, swiping his sword whilst he imagined himself as the immortal demon-warrior. He enjoyed it so much that he would pull out his engorged penis and masturbate, still snarling and swiping thin air with his blade as he splashed the glass.

      The girl’s head was now bobbing up and down on the new prick as she tried to ingest as much of its length as she could. Her arms were reaching out to the sides, grasping and stroking the erections there, one already sucked, the other the next in line. Her audible appreciation of the cocks was ever growing and she stuck her bare bottom out as if hoping to lure another one inside her. Perhaps one of the lads of the line would have been aroused enough to want to oblige her, had they not all been chained to the wall with their hands secured behind their backs.

      He studied the pristine white skin stretched over her chubby behind. The treatment had worked well. He remembered this one had had at least five small but prominent moles on her buttocks, a tiny constellation across her milky cheeks. Now there was no sign. When he finally came to bend her over and parted those cheeks he would find the darkness around her holes all gone, the openings and the delicate skin between them almost as pale as the hemispheres of her bottom.

      The cryosurgery to eliminate the darker pigmentation was expensive, especially as he had to send his newly initiated girls to a clinic in the States for the treatment. However, it was worth it for the speed and thoroughness of the job. The results were always outstanding. As soon as his girls were accepted into his Sacred Order they were given a combination of whitening pills and creams for daily use, imported illegally from Europe, Japan or America. These helped lighten the moles and other surface blemishes but the process was slow. Sometimes minor surgery or a cleansing blast was required. He needed his girls pristine, as flawless as the statues of the bacchantes of antiquity. The legends all said that these girls had been perfect, and so they should be for him now. His status demanded no less; his prick demanded no less.

      Those legends mostly told of the bacchantes’ voracious sexual hunger, and this girl was doing her best to honour that tradition. She was still loudly trying to engulf the one penis whilst running her closed fists swiftly up and down the straining lengths at either side of her. She clearly couldn’t get enough and here were six hard beauties all in a line, just for her. His massive member would make it lucky seven. His was the last she would have seen, some weeks ago now. That had been the day of her initiation hunt, when she had watched him stretch and fill a virgin cūlus to its limits. At that point, she truly became his.

      He might one day let her feel the same joy that plundered bottom had felt, but not today. Other, slimmer erections would go there but not his monster. It was something to be used sparingly, to make sure she always hankered after it and yearned for the chance to feel it stream inside her. In the meantime there were many other ways to ensure she stayed within the fold until he no longer had use for her. Today’s ceremony, officially called The Cleansing, though more commonly known amongst the girls as The Spattering, was chief amongst these ways. This was another day she would never forget.

      She had been jetted back only the day before and given a night to get over her trip. Earlier she had been overseen by Morgana, who always prepared her girls in person. She would have been bathed and then soothed all over with lotion. No depilation was necessary as during the stay at the clinic electrolysis was also undertaken to ensure no more hair grew around her privates. Priestess Morgana would have talked all the time about stiff pricks. They would have looked at glossy magazine pictures of lovely erections and discussed them in great detail. Throughout her long schooling period in this Order the girl would have been denied all flesh cocks. Once initiated, there was the promise of as many as she could take, starting that very day. She would have been dying for them.