The Stonebare Witches

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A colony plagued by witches turns the tables.
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PulpWyatt
PulpWyatt
290 Followers

The colony flourished. Disease had taken its toll on the crops, but the settlers had gotten by together. Wet weather may have soaked their fields and their clothes, but it could not dampen their spirits. Clay mounds, lengthy wood-braced dugouts and wooden houses dotted the plot of shoreline farmland that the settlers had claimed for their own.

Bright Sand looked on all of it with pride. Fifteen years ago, when he was merely a boy, his people had come here on ocean-crossing ships that barely held together. Two years later, he had earned his name, a name commemorating the first terrain his people set foot on: Sand. Bright Sand. Now Sand was a man, and the seasick colonists who had crawled off the boat were now a healthy, vivacious clan who held their heads high.

Sand's people had come with bows, throwing spears and obsidian-toothed swords, expecting to have to fight the natives. Instead, it had been possible to bargain with them, and Sand had done it so well that it had become his job.

Now he turned away from the settlement and set off into the cold, dense forest to do just that.

The natives of this land were not like a kingdom, where one man sits on the throne and the rest borrow their power from him. It was more like a boisterous family, full of tribes that never got along with each other but which always claimed to serve the same far-off king. Dealing with the tribes, Sand had found, meant dealing with anyone and everyone who could help.

Sometimes, that meant doing things more intimate than he liked. 'Anything for the colony,' he reminded himself.

From between the trees, an animal swung into view. It was, in Sand's opinion, the most fierce and capricious animal to be found on either side of the ocean: a human woman.

Thin red lines were tattooed down her cheeks, suggesting either tears or fangs depending on how one looked at them, and her catlike eyes stared as if they could see straight through his clothes. In a minute, Sand thought, they wouldn't need to.

"What's the word, Margrit?" he asked.

"Sand," she began, in her harsh accent. "The king still recognizes you. So does his Chief Volker. But his Chief Burnell does not. Everyone who resents you has gone to him. They are few, but they won't be idle."

"Your chiefs can't agree on anything," Sand complained. "Why have a king if he won't discipline his chiefs?"

"Why follow a king if all he does is discipline you?" Smoothly, she leapt to the ground in front of him, already sporting a wolfish smile. "There, you have the news. Now it's time for my reward." Margrit did not demand money in exchange for her information, nor steel tools, nor the golden trinkets that the simpler natives coveted. She did not want tribute or titles or deals, but only one thing: him. Stepping forward with a mischievous smile, she slid her fingers under Sand's tunic, fingertips pressing against his chest.

"There's something else," said Sand, trying to focus. "Chickens have been disappearing from the ranch. Not dying, but simply disappearing. Could your chief be responsible?"

"Not if it has gone on for more than a few days," she said absently, as she slowly undid his belt. It slumped to the ground, and his tunic hung free. She slid away the tunic, leaving his bare chest shivering in the chilly air. Now only his kilt protected his manhood from her, and it wouldn't protect him for long. She reached under, running a finger along the underside of its length.

"Then who else..." His focus broke, and he let out an involuntary gasp. "Who else could it be?"

"No one I know." Her fingers worked like spider legs, undoing the knot on his kilt and sending in to the ground around his ankles. "Old Walden is the only one who would steal from you, and he is sick."

Stark naked, Sand tried to focus. "Who might be new in- ah!"

She pumped his cock, and Sand could feel it harden under her fingers. She glanced down at it, unimpressed, and kept pumping.

"Margrit..." he huffed, trying to keep his composure. "Margrit... this is important."

She looked him in the eye, and her pupils seemed like spearheads bearing down on him over her smile. "You're too pretty for politics."

"I need to find what's- umph!"

She silenced him with a kiss. Under her skilled fingers, his cock simmered with eager energy, and her lips plied him, sucking and exploring, pausing then pushing. She kept him guessing, and when she shoved him against a tree trunk, he was helpless to resist.

She broke the kiss, but she did not pull away. Their noses almost touched. She let out a purr that sounded more like a growl, bestial and hungry. Sand knew she was only a few finger-widths taller than him, but now she seemed much more.

Pressed between her body and the hard tree bark behind him, looking up into her predatory eyes, Sand appreciated how an animal feels in a snare. He could not escape her hands, nor could he compel her to get it over with, have her way with him and break the tension. All he could do was wait.

Finally, she acted. Reaching under with one hand, she undid the cloth sash around her waist. Her fur skirts still hid everything from sight, but Sand knew that underneath her fur, she was bare and dangerous.

Standing on the tips of her toes, she positioned herself over his straining cock, and with a firm grip on his sides, she lowered herself onto him.

"Augh!" For one moment, Sand forgot where he was. He forgot the cold, wet air, the harsh bark behind him and everything except for the pressure between his legs. His focus sharpened with every push as she forced herself over him, sending tension rippling through his body. His knees strained to stop him from sinking to the ground. He breathed heavily, loudly, as she drained the energy from him. It became a struggle to stay standing. She grew in intensity, threatening to crush him between the tree trunk and her own savage bucking.

Then he heard her make a noise. For a moment, he thought it was simply the moaning he had been too scattered to notice, then she made the sound again, and he realized what it was. He tensed up, knowing what was coming.

Margrit's orgasm wreaked its force on her body, and she clenched him like she was trying to break him. Grunting with the effort, he kept his limbs firm, supporting her as she pulled herself up on him and let out her pleasure in one primal howl.

She dismounted him, feet thumping heavily onto the forest floor, and he allowed himself to relax. His cheeks puffed as he breathed out. In his muzzy vision, all he could see was the sweat rolling down his bare chest.

When he had recovered half of his wits, Margrit's fingers cradled his chin and tipped it up to level. Her lazy, satisfied face gazed placidly back at him for a moment, then she kissed him, her own mouth wet and slack from the force of her orgasm.

She pulled away, still wearing that drunken smile. "That was good. Oh, that was good." She flattened out her skirts. "Run on home, pretty boy. But be back here in a month. Because I will." One last time, she stroked his hair, as if she was trying to memorize the feel of his ragged, sweaty black locks. Then she turned and strode away.

Sand staggered as he came off the tree trunk. Once her back was turned, he glared his resentment at her. But it was all he could do. For as long as the colony needed her news, she had him by the scruff of his neck.

'If only the colony didn't need her,' he thought, 'I wouldn't be her pleasure toy.' But even as he thought it, he recognized his own dishonesty. The previous night, he'd been excited, thinking of her. A week ago, he had realized that it would be only a few short days before he prostituted himself again, and to his horror, it had made him smile.

Whether the colony required this of him or not, he would never be free of her.

*

"Do it right, Fentri."

It was thousandth time the mother witch had told her that, and it would not be the last.

In their underground hovel, where hunters would never find them and where king and his scouts would never look, a dozen witches hunched around a fire that whipped and curled as they plied their magic.

"Fentri!" snapped the mother witch. "Focus!"

Fentri pressed her lips together. A year ago, on that sad, lonely day when she first stumbled into the lair of these witches, she had hoped that they would take her in and love her as a daughter. Instead, she found a nest of petty showoffs, each eager to prove herself against the others. The witches badgered her to chant spells, not to find a husband, and they lashed her with their tongues instead of backhanded blows, but it was a meager improvement on her birth family.

Nonetheless, Fentri focused. Keeping her voice steady, she waited to speak her part of the curse. Conradine spoke the invocation that summoned their power, Ordella spoke the magic word that focused on its target, Otka threw a carved bone into the fire to give the curse power and Fentri put on the finishing touch. It was a curse of flight. Until the next full moon and maybe a little after, all the littlest animals kept by men would be stricken with wanderlust and escape their confines.

There was no rhyme or reason to the curses the mother witch prescribed for the outside world. She took orders from a higher being who spoke only to her, or so she claimed. Rather than question any of it, the other witches would simply race to be the first one to obey.

The spell ended, the fire died down, and everyone was silent as they waited for the mother witch to speak.

"We are done," she said. She spoke in a crusty lilt, but it may have been a divine voice for all the power it held over the others. Slowly, with the scraping of dirty cloaks on the ashen cave floor, the witches stood and retired deeper into the cave.

Fentri retired too, not to any bed of her own, but to the corner to which they had relegated her. Under a mound which everyone else assumed was a garbage pile, Fentri examined her stash. She had clothes to survive the cold, food to last her for weeks—a month if she stretched it thin—and a hatchet for cutting wood. They were simple things made precious by the effort and risk that had gone into procuring them.

As her eyes played over each simple, beloved tool, she remembered that tearful night which now seemed so long ago, when she had determined to abandon the witches. Omens had advised her against leaving there and then, but tonight they gave their approval. Tonight, she would go.

Sneaking out of the caves might have been difficult, except those stuck-up witches never paid her any mind. Unnoticed, she slipped out of her place in the corner and through the spellcasting room. Then with a hand shading her eyes, she stepped out of the cave system, under the open sky.

She should have taken off running. Instead, she turned her head up and let the sun fall on her face. She breathed in the sweet, smokeless air, already dusted with the scent of early spring flowers. She felt the breeze blow cold mist across her forehead. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she opened them and took in the beauty. Great old oaks rose from the mat of dead grass and twigs that carpeted the ground, with piles of glistening snow hiding in the crooks of their roots. A squirrel skittered across a fallen log, then paused and glanced at her before loping on its way.

Unable to wait, Fentri pulled on her fur jacket, tightened her shoes and took off running. She laughed, letting the noise drift up and be lost to the heavens.

Her gait turned to a skip as she realized that she had been wrong before; she had indeed been told to 'Do it right!' for the last time.

*

Walking had gotten old quickly. Fentri's shoes had not spared her feet from the rough ground, and until she entered the mountain range, the wind had been murderous. Through it all, though, her frail and sallow body kept going, fired by the thought that every step was an act of defiance, a declaration of her freedom from those evil women who had treated her like a slave for so long.

Here, everything was either peak or valley. It would feel strange to walk on level ground again. The looming, blue-grey silhouettes of the mountains frowned against the wind, sheltering her from it.

A few days' march was not enough distance to make her safe from the witches, but it was an improvement.

On the hillside ahead, snow piled up against a waist-high cobblestone wall in the shape of a horseshoe. Approaching, Fentri saw a fire pit in the middle, still warm. But whoever had used this place last seemed to be done with it. Fentri sat against the wall, threw a few dry twigs onto the firepit and spoke a quick incantation to reignite the flame. It felt strange, casting magic alone.

With a smile, she nursed her fire to health. Against the comforting, mundane crackle of the wood, she drank in the dizzying openness and brightness of the rocky valley.

"Hey," said a deep, feminine voice. "You got comfy."

A shock ran from Fentri's head to the tips of her toes. Her shoes scrabbled on white gravel as she stood up and faced the woman behind her.

The visitor was not the hulking giantess she had sounded like. Maybe a finger-width shorter than Fentri, her figure was broadened by the bow on her back and the quiver on her hip, and by the bulging fur packs on her sides. From underneath a mat of tangled blond hair, she smiled lopsidedly at Fentri.

Fentri managed a weak smile in response.

"You found the trapper's fire," said the archer, setting down her equipment and helping herself to sit next to Fentri. "There's plenty of room. But you don't seem like the type to live off the land."

"Oh. No." Fentri looked down.

"Want to tell me what brings you out here?"

"N-not really."

The archer let out a scratchy laugh. "I can respect that. But don't tell me you plan to stay alone out here. Don't you have a family that can look out for you?"

"No."

"Not even a boyfriend? Me neither. I'm not the type." Shifting to the far side of the fire, she lay on her back, yawned and stretched. Fentri could not help but watch as the stranger arched her back, and her strong muscles, flat stomach and smooth breasts strained against her soft hide shirt. "I'm Kaethe, by the way."

"And I'm Fentri."

"Fentri. That's a pretty name. I'll tell you- if you want to sleep with me, be my guest."

Whispering her thanks, Fentri set out her cot, stretched herself over it and sighed deeply. The noise of the fire sang her to sleep.

*

"You alright, little thing?" Fentri awoke to Kaethe staring at her with smiling, half-serious concern. "You looked like a bad dream took you. Here, let's have breakfast."

Fentri perked up. "You're willing to share?"

"Of course. You can always hunt, but sharing your meal with a new friend? That's a rare treat." She stirred a pot of juicy-smelling stew, then filled two wooden bowls and handed one to Fentri.

For a moment, the stew imposed silence as they both drank its hot, life-giving thickness.

"So, you're alone?" said Kaethe, finishing first. "You eat alone, you walk alone, you sleep alone? How long you been like that?"

"Mm." Fentri let down the empty bowl, licking her lips. "It's very good."

"You've had to cook for yourself too, haven't you?"

"Oh, not for long. But I guess I'll be that way forever now." Saying those words, she felt the sudden urge to cry. She had never had a clear picture of what free life would be like, and now it started to look terribly bleak and lonesome.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Fentri's face screwed up. "No," she mewled.

"Hey, hey, hey," Kathe crawled up to her and gently tipped up Fentri's chin with one hand. "You're not used to being alone, are you?"

Fentri shook her head.

"Don't want to stay that way?"

Again, Fentri shook it.

For minutes, the two sat there in what was almost an embrace. With Kaethe's arms between her and the cold, empty world, Fentri regained herself.

"You don't like being alone," said Kaethe at last, "and I'm right here. Am I really gonna have to say it?"

Fentri tilted her head.

"No one should have to go it alone for too long. Come on, tell me. When was the last time you had some fun?"

"I... I'm not sure."

The woman scooted a little closer, eyelids low. "That's what I thought. A pretty girl like you? Neglected? That's just not right."

Fentri swallowed. Sex? Now? She frothed with uncertainty. But just as she prepared to reject the offer, she decided on a whim that she was done acting out of fear. She lowered her voice, trying to make it sultry. "I'm ready," she said.

To her credit, Kaethe made no sudden moves. Instead, she smiled a broad, hungry smile and leaned in for a kiss. First it was a dry little peck on the cheek. Then she moved in a little closer, getting her hands on Fentri's shoulders, kissing her on the jaw, on the neck and even pulling down the collar of her cloak a little to kiss her on the chest. Then, wrapping her arms all the way around Fentri, she kissed her full on the lips, a sweet, gentle caress of her tongue of Fentri's. When she pulled away, she let out a deep chuckle. "You thought I was going to keep your lips waiting, didn't you?"

Fentri laughed, relaxing a little.

Kaethe pressed herself up against Fentri's body, warm even through her thick furs, and purred as she squatted on Fentri's lap. Her hands fondled Fentri's jaw like someone handling a cut of sweet meat, unsure where to take a bite first.

As Kaethe eyed her and fondled her, Fentri's fear melted away. Kaethe was no monster, nor even a witch. She was just a woman.

With a naughty smile, Fentri took the initiative. She touched Kaethe's inner thigh, murmuring, "Eruür aelp fo hs." It was the command for a spell she had learned as an afterthought and never expected to use: Rush of Pleasure.

Kaethe made a sound of rising, panicked sensation, and for a moment Fentri thought she had misapplied the spell and hurt her. Kaethe panted, all of her muscles tense, then looked into Fentri's eyes with a wild smile. "What was that?"

Fentri's lowered her head shyly. "Magic."

"Do that again!"

Fentri did, but this time, she went slowly. Running her hand up Kaethe's thigh, she rubbed the inseam of her trousers, then paused there, as if she was about to cast the spell again. Instead, Fentri put a hand Kaethe's breast, palming the vague shape that hid under her thick coat, and spoke the spell again.

Kaethe responded with another primal howl, this one longer and smoother. A boiling red filled her face, and sweat began to form on her hairline. With shaking hands, she undid her outer layer, letting it flop to the ground. "You have a talent!" she declared.

Fentri was not done. She nestled herself astride Kaethe's right leg, feeling her hard knee press against her sex, and prepared to cast the Rush spell by a peculiar twitch of her toes. With a mischievous laugh, Fentri leaned in and kissed Kaethe, holding the archer's head to keep her in the kiss. Surreptitiously, her other hand reached down to Kaethe's stomach, and her fingers found their way beneath the furs to the warm skin below.

Then Fentri twitched her toes.

Fentri could feel the shock as it ran up Kaethe's back. Like a bullwhip, the huntress straightened up, and her fingers tightened all over Fentri's body. Kaethe let slip a scattered, incoherent wail, muted by the kiss.

Something rushed through Fentri, and it was not just lust—the thrill of power tingled on her fingertips like its own kind of magic. Fentri, Fentri the coward, Fentri the mousy little whipping-girl of the Stonebare witches, now had command of the body of this powerful huntress.

Just as the moment began to wear off, Fentri pushed her fingers a little lower and found Kaethe's sex. One little stroke in the right place was all it took. The huntress convulsed, breaking the kiss, and sang out her pleasure as she released.

PulpWyatt
PulpWyatt
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