The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

During the whole of a dim, dark, overcast day in October I had journeyed by rail, first from Richmond to Boston, and thence by way of an antiquated local milk-train which incorporated three rattling passenger coaches to witch-cursed Arkham and so on through wild country to other hamlets, ending its course at the remote village of Wycham. Though I caught the commuter train on its second run of the day, at two-thirty P.M., I found only two of its three passenger cars much occupied, by sullen, silent commuters returning from their jobs in Boston to the smaller hamlets scattered about. Not desiring company, I went back to the third carriage, where I was the sole occupant, and sat gazing with a brooding intensity out the window as the landscape fled by.

It looked desolate, with its twisted trees already bare of foliage thrusting stark black branches skyward in a sort of frozen frenzy, as though struggling in their slow way to escape some chthonic horror lurking beneath the surface of the soil; with the low, swagging, ragged, grey clouds grazing the tops of the truncated hills; with the railway alternately wriggling through narrow, rocky gorges dug by human hands (if one could call those degraded and inbred inhabitants of the rural areas who had sunk so low as to rely on picks and shovels for their livelihood “human”), or following the natural but tortuous course of a sluggish stream. I saw precious few signs of life.

At Arkham some two dozen or so disembarked from the train, and no-one boarded. As the train resumed its forward motion with hisses, clanks, and a lurch, the conductor, an elderly, portly man with the red face of incipient apoplexy, came into the carriage and, without asking my leave, settled his bulk into the seat beside me. “Never much traffic this mid-day run,” he muttered. “Git some few more when we return this evenin’—night-shift workers goin’ in, an’ at seven, the ones that worked a full day comin’ back agin’. So you’re bound for Wycham, are ye?”

I assented that, as my ticket indicated, I was indeed thence bound.

The conductor heaved a walrus-like sigh. “Never have no passengers from there. Pick up milk on the mornin’ run, and now an’ then a little sack of mail. Comin’ back on the four-ten, are ye?”

No, I said, I purposed to spend the night.

The conductor shivered. “No money’d be enough to make me spend eight dark hours ’neath a roof of that accursed village. What takes ye so far out into the sticks?”

“A sad business,” I replied. “My grand-uncle has died, and I am on my way to his funeral and then to-morrow to the reading of the will.”

“Do tell,” the conductor murmured.

Taking this as a sign that his questioning would never cease until his abominable curiosity was fully satisfied, I at once began to relate the whole story of my family: How the Granbruits, despite their French name, had been thoroughly Anglicised, having come over to the isles of Britain with the Conqueror. I hastened to add, that though they had adopted a French surname—originally Grande-Biroute, though it had been contracted and alternately spelt over the centuries—they were no degenerate and greasy Latinate types, but all descendants of Norsemen, of the right, true Nordic blood, as witness my own pale hair and blue eyes; that in the time of the English Civil War, my ancestors had emigrated to America, proud Cavaliers all; and that my great-great-grandfather Jeremiah Granbruit had, following his distinguished service as a Union deserter in the American Civil War, come to Massachusetts, had claimed a large estate of land, and had built himself a mansion in Wycham.

At this juncture of my story, observing that the train had begun to slow, I gazed out the window and espied the sign for Wycham—indeed, we were gliding to a stop at its small rural station—and further observing that my boorishly inquisitive companion had fallen sound asleep, I carefully eased myself into the aisle, retrieved my grip, and paused only to relieve the conductor of his pocket-watch, for it seemed to me that its loud ticking was apt to awaken him, and the elderly need their rest.

I alighted on the platform just as the train began to pull out again, the track there describing a wide loop so that it could return to Arkham and Boston with the engine facing forward. I stepped through the deserted station—not even a clerk at the ticket window—and, emerging on the far side, gazed for the first time in my life at the home-town of my ancestors, with its weathered gambrel roofs, Georgian balustrades, narrow cobbled streets, and general air of genteel decrepitude.

The main street seemed to terminate at the station. To my left stood a few clapboard-sided businesses, namely Nurse’s Sundries, Cloyse’s Hardware and Feeds, a Starbuck’s, and Tituba’s Fashions for Ladies; to my right, Hathorne’s General Store, Parris’s Café, and Dustin’s Electronics. At the end of this meagre block of commerce, the street curved in a traffic circle or roundabout, in the centre of which lay the Town Hall, a brick edifice whose Greek Revival architecture hinted that it might date as far back as the 1830s. The structure was remarkable for being full two storeys tall and for its even taller central steeple, crowned with a fanciful weather-vane in the form of a witch mounted on a broomstick. Gazing at it, I recollected the stories that my father had told me when I was a child of six and he wished to terrify me (for he had been a nasty bastard), blood-curdling tales of how many of the earliest settlers of Wycham had come from Salem, where the so-called witch-trials had made life tedious for certain citizens.

Checking the conductor’s pocket-watch, I observed that the time was just past four; and since my appointment with my grand-uncle’s lawyer was set at that hour, and since the letter specifying the time had indicated that Attorney M.A. Carline’s office was in the town hall, I hastened down the main street, not seeing a soul. I ascended six broad granite steps and entered the town hall, where I found a receptionist, comely but for her unfortunate dark complexion, seated at a desk. She greeted me pleasantly enough, and in response to my enquiry informed me that the attorney’s office was on the second floor, room 213, for M.A. Carline was, in addition to being in private legal practice, the water commissioner of the village.

Accordingly, I mounted the steps to the—properly called—first floor—for I had worked hard to achieve my Anglophilism and my snobbery and would not be deprived of it by a woman who looked to be of mixed blood—and quickly located the door of room 213, which bore a large pane of pebbled glass with, in gilt letters, “M.A. Carline, Water Commissioner and Attorney-at-Law” inscribed upon it.

We Granbruits are quick of intuition, and, some obscure instinct telling me this was the office I sought, I opened the door and found myself taken somewhat aback as a young woman, no more than thirty, rose from behind a desk with a polite look of expectation on her face. She was shapely, in the way that some females of our species are, with blonde hair and a perfectly beautiful skin tone, nearly albino. “Ah,” she said in a pure contralto, “you must be Mr. Stephen Granbruit. I’ve been expecting you.” She extended a hand. “I’m Mercy Adams Carline, your late uncle’s attorney.”

I took her hand—her fingers, exquisitely slim, squeezed mine most painfully (we Granbruits are also delicate and rather proud of the fact)—and she said, “The funeral is in twenty minutes, but it’s barely a five-minute walk. Be seated and ask me any questions. I’m sure you have a few.”

Thanking her, I settled into a leather armchair that was, unfortunately, too comfortable—we Granbruits rather pride ourselves on our austerity—and said, “Well, of course I don’t know the terms of my grand-uncle’s will, or indeed whether he had any estate to speak of at all.”

“As to that,” she said, settling back into her own chair—I observed that her dress, a businesslike charcoal-grey, drew tight about her rounded bosoms as she did so—“there is in fact a considerable estate: Investments that, even in today’s market, generate an income of a little more than half a million dollars a year; land holdings in six states that bring in double that in rentals; and the Gran’ Biroute manor, Jardin de Plaisir. It stands in 666 acres of its own grounds, has thirty rooms, including ten bedrooms but excluding ten and a half baths, and is in excellent condition. It was your grand-uncle’s fondest hope that you would, in fact, take up permanent residence there.”

I pursed my lips. “As to that,” I confessed, “there may be an impediment. My business in Richmond might prevent me from making a permanent move here.”

“Oh?” she asked, raising an arched eyebrow. “I was given to understand that, though so young—you are, I believe, twenty-five?—you were a gentleman of leisure.”

“I am twenty-five,” I admitted. “And it’s true that I have not ever had to, as one might say, work for a living, but the boys in BJ’s Pool Hall would miss me so keenly.”

She glanced at her watch. “Well, you will at least spend t0-night in the manor,” she said. “You’ll have to, since the reading of the will has been set for eight P.M., after the last train has left, and there’s no hotel or motel in Wycham.”

“You disappoint me, for I came equipped for that,” I said, indicated my suitcase and fighting back some slight regret at there not being a hotel. I had planned on augmenting my supply of towels and sheets, but let that go. “I see we have about seven minutes until the funeral. Perhaps we should sally forth?”

“O-kay,” she said. “Let’s sally.”

Croakhum’s Funeral Parlor stood barely fifty steps away from the town hall, and we entered it as an organ began to play a slow dirge. Attorney Carline led me to a small chapel, where precisely eleven mourners, all clad in soberest black, waited in the pews. I nodded at them solemnly, and then it dawned upon me that they were all, to a man, women. Some were tall and willowy, some shorter and plump as pheasants, but all wore black dresses, hats and veils, and all applied lacy white handkerchiefs to eyes and noses. Curiously, none of them appeared older than the attorney Carline—that is to say, thirty years of age—and some looked as young as twenty. My guide and I took our place in the foremost pew, and in a moment a minister—also a woman, I saw to my shock, wearing black pontifical robes—emerged from a side door, bearing a bronze urn, which she reverently placed upon a round marble pedestal.

“We are here,” she said softly, “to bid farewell to a fine, upstanding man.”

Audible sobs broke out behind me.

“Jedidiah Granbruit,” the minister said, “as many said, was a hard man. Indeed, as we all know that at times he could be extremely hard. However, as also we all know, he carried with him the means for imparting happiness to others.”

“’Appiness!” murmured a French-accented woman’s voice behind me. “Mon Dieu, what ’appiness ’e ’ad! Très forte, très longue, très élastique!”

“And though our beloved Jedidiah now has gone the way of all flesh,” the minister intoned, “we have the hope that among us, his like will one day rise again.”

The atmosphere in the chapel was close and cloying—I attributed this to the masses of flowers that perfumed the air—and I began to feel a little dizzy and lost the thread of what was being said. I retain a foggy recollection of the congregation’s joining in a ritual chant of some kind—Psalms, I have no doubt. At any rate, the service went on for some minutes, the minister came to a conclusion, and somehow I found myself at the doorway of the chapel as the mourners departed, each of them taking my hand and saying a few words of condolence. The French-speaking woman was one of the tall ones, with piercing green eyes and a generously wide, scarlet mouth. “You are so much like your dear uncle,” she murmured to me. “I ’ope you ’ave ’is gifts of enthusiasm—of restraint—above all, of stamina.”

I forget what I replied. After the service, Attorney Carline had me climb into her automobile, oddly enough a black truck with the strange name Ram, and drove me along a rough unpaved but graveled road into the countryside. The grey cloud layer had neither thinned nor lifted, and already the gloom of evening was coming on fast, not lessened by the route she took, a winding road overarched with gloomy black-boughed oaks. We emerged from this arboreal tunnel at last, passed through an open gateway of brick and iron, and so along a wide drive to the house of Jardin de Plaisir, the seat of my grand-uncle. To say it surprised me is to understate the case. It astonished, nay, amazed me: a sprawling, but handsome, three-storied house of native granite, with great arched windows, romantic conical-roofed turrets, and tall chimneys; a walled garden just visible behind it, with a suggestion of orchard trees.

My driver parked beneath a broad porte-cochere and we stepped out into a briskly cool dusk. “In the spring and summer,” said Mercy—for she had asked me to call her by her first name on the drive out—“this is quite a showplace. The pool has been drained for the winter, unfortunately, but it is Olympic-sized and is a marvelously relaxing place to laze away a sunny day.”

She conducted me through the house—we paused in the study, which she said had been Jedidiah’s favourite room, for me to place his ashes reverently in the waste-basket—and again I found myself astounded by the opulence of the place. Each room had been tastefully, expensively decorated and furnished—the master bedroom had an extraordinary double-king-sized bed, but the tapestry-hung chamber was so big that even that seemed of only moderate size—the kitchen gleamed with the most modern appurtenances, the dining room could easily seat twenty-four, and there was an exercise room, a steam room, an enclosed spa room—all in all, it began to dawn on me, that, compared to the manor, BJ’s Pool Hall was a negligible little crinkled ball of shit.

Whilst we stood on a balcony overlooking the broad enclosed garden with its pool, its flower-beds—fallow now—and its grove of apple trees, I heard the sounds of automobile engines. Mercy looked at her watch. “That will be the staff,” she said. “They were to return to prepare the evening meal. We will stay out of their way to let them do their work. You and I will return to the study, where at the proper time I will formally read the will and surrender to you the deed, the keys, and full ownership of your uncle’s house. Come.”

We settled into the room, she gesturing me to be seated upon an ornate sofa which appeared to be an antique of the Empire Period. She went to one of the bookcases, stooped—allowing me incidentally to observe that, like her bosoms, her derriere was rounded and very shapely—and, opening a cabinet, took from within a crusty old bottle of wine and two glasses. “Jedidiah suggested that we should begin by having a comfortable drink together,” she said. “This is a fine old Haut-Médoc, a vintage that your uncle much loved.” She uncorked the bottle and waved the cork gently beneath my nose. “Exquisite bouquet,” she murmured.

I sniffed and grew instantly, rapturously dizzy. Perhaps it had to do with my having passed over luncheon, or perhaps the wine really did go straight to one’s head, but I could not suppress a smile and an anticipatory shiver. “It is delightful,” I confessed.

Mercy poured two glasses of the wine, red as arterial blood. “These pieces of fine crystal,” she said softly, “were produced in Toulon, to your uncle’s specifications; they are called there verres à Médoc à la Gran’Biroute.” She set the glasses on a silver tray, then for a moment as she picked the tray up, her figure concealed the wine from my sight. However, she soon enough settled the tray onto a conveniently-placed table, seated herself beside me, and retrieved the glasses. She handed one to me, keeping the other; and then we clinked glasses and wished each other health and drank to my uncle’s memory.

The wine was strong, full-bodied, and exhilarating. I seemed to feel my inward powers swelling as it descended to my stomach; and when Mercy offered a second glass, I did not refuse it. I have then a muzzy memory of her leaning close to me and whispering into my ear, soft and sultry murmurs that seemed to make my heart pound within me. What she said I cannot recall, only that I readily assented: “Yes, yes,” I kept replying.

Then somehow we had moved to opposite sides of my uncle’s desk, and Mercy read the will—all simple enough, with hardly any legal folderol about it—and it grew increasingly clear to me that all this, house and lands and fortune, were really and truly mine and that my days of hustling novices at the pool hall were rapidly receding behind me. Mercy had me sign some pages and initial some others, and by half-past eight the thing was well and truly done. Then she said it was time for us to go down to dinner.

Somehow my legs carried me unsteadily down the plushly carpeted steps—scarlet carpet, I noticed—and we made our way to the grand formal dining room where two dozen might have met for a meal. To my utter astonishment, against the long far wall stood a dozen women—all those I had seen at the funeral service, including the minister—but now they had changed clothing.

Four of them wore extremely abbreviated French Maid uniforms, their legs provocatively contained in fish-net stockings, their feet incased in shoes with seven-inch stiletto heels; three were attired as cooks, wearing aprons that were barely long enough for modesty in front and that, viewed from the rear, revealed that the women wore naught else but narrow thong underwear; and all three wore white toques. The French woman was attired as a waiter, in a tuxedo, red vest, and red bow tie; but her glorious blonde hair fell free to her shoulders and her green eyes shone with pleasure as she gestured me to my chair. One of the plumper ladies—though as to that, she was plump in what I privately considered a most fetching way—wore the garb of a chauffeur, except that, like that of the cooks, her costume was so much abbreviated that her very real and abundant charms showed clearly. Her hair was red, curly, and long, I recall.

That left three more; one wore a kind of nurse’s uniform, but again with a very tight tunic and a very short skirt. Another was evidently a secretary, though she wore only a pair of glasses and carried a legal pad which, held before her, concealed her pudenda but not her perky pink-tipped breasts. Finally, she who had acted as minister was to sit at my left, with Mercy at my right.

With my head reeling, I settled into the proffered chair. “Mercy,” I gasped, “what means this?”

“This is your staff,” Mercy said calmly. “They come with the house. They are ready to please you in every possible way.”

“M’sieur,” the French waitress said, “your dinner!”

She clapped her hands, and the cooks placed before us a banquet such as I had never dreamed of—exquisite dishes, beginning with a consommé, proceeding to a delicate salad with hearts of palm and tasty greens the like of which I had never partaken, a fish course of excellent Nova Scotia salmon, a course of venison, incredibly tender—and more wine, always more wine.

At length I observed that the nurse—for such she truly was, she told me, and had guarded my uncle’s health and diet for a long time—incessantly sprinkled some powder into each glass of my wine—mine, but not those of my companions. “What is that?” I demanded.

“A stimulant,” she said with a smile. “And something to make you feel pleasant.”

“I do feel pleasant,” I acknowledged. “In fact—as we are all Americans together—I see no sense for this class segregation—everyone! Sit and eat with me!” How my father would have roared in displeasure at hearing me depart thus from noblesse oblige and venture into mere democracy. However, I decided, he was dead, so fuck him.

With smiles and giggles and looks of appreciation, they all took advantage of my invitation. The minister praised my breadth of spirit, while gently stroking my left thigh. Mercy occasionally licked my right ear. Eventually the room began to spin faster and faster . . . until it receded utterly from view and for a time all went dark.

How long I was unconscious, I cannot say. What I recall is waking in darkness—not utter darkness, but the darkness of an autumnal night with a heavy overcast, but above the clouds the palest suggestion of a high full moon. I lay on some sort of couch, in some sort of gazebo or—yes, I saw by the faint glimmer of moonlight, in fact I lay within a circular classically-styled marble temple, its pillars rising to a domed ceiling. “He is awake,” Mercy said.

“Hecate be praised,” they all intoned.

I said, “Look here, I’m naked.”

“We know,” Mercy assured me.

“But I’m not cold.”

“That is because of our glamour,” she said.

Well, they were certainly very pretty, all of them, but I didn’t see what their looks had to do with the temperature. I struggled to speak but could not find the words.

“Sisters,” Mercy said, “Let us show the new master of Jardin de Plaisir of what comforts await him.”

They began to chant, something rhythmic but in no language that I knew. As I had said, I felt no chill—inexplicable, seeing that I lay in an open temple on an October night in Massachusetts—but I did shiver—indeed, I trembled—at the eldritch sound of those female voices speaking solemnly in unison.

I began to see sparks of golden light. At first I thought it an aberration of the senses, an hallucination brought on by too much wine and too rich a repast, but then the sparks gleamed and brightened as they swarmed the air and climbed all the trees around—for the temple occupied a central clearing in the leafless apple orchard—until every branch bore a glittering golden array of twinkling golden lights that shed their own illumination and warmth.

In the glow, I saw that all the women, Mercy, minister, and the other eleven, stood stark naked. The alteration, if anything, only added to their attractiveness in some inexplicable manner. I struggled to sit up, wishing for a better view, but found that some ineluctable lassitude had robbed my limbs of the power of conscious motion. Mercy came to stand beside my couch and reached down. I felt her warm hand outspread, pressing upon my chest. “Stephen Granbruit,” she said, “do not fear us. We are, as you might now divine, sorceresses—descendants of the true witches of Salem, those who were never caught, never prosecuted, never hanged. Here in Wycham we have made our private peace with a hostile world, and here you are destined to stay.”

“Okey-dokey,” I returned, waggishly. “Am I the master, then?”

“Not quite,” Mercy told me with a wink. “You’re more of the stud. You see, Wycham is an all-female town—but the drawback to that is that, for all our mystic powers of augury, transformation, alchemy, and general deviltry, we cannot, on our own, reproduce. That’s where you will come in. You will service us regularly, Stephen. Some of us will become pregnant. When we give birth, if the child is a boy, we will get rid of him—”

“Hold on,” I objected. “That’s just plain mean.”

“You misunderstand,” she said firmly. “We are not monsters. We won’t kill him—however, we have a network of people all over the country that will place the child in an adoptive family that will raise him to be a contributing member of society, without letting anyone know that he carries within him the blood of witches. Why, where do you think the bulk of the country’s lawyers and politicians come from? And game-show hosts?”

“Oh, okay.”

She ruffled my hair fondly. “But if the child is a girl, she will be raised here, educated in the Craft, and will take her place in the community we have created.”

“Sounds good to me. When do we start?”

“Francine,” Mercy said, “I believe that’s your cue.”

Francine was the tall, beautiful French girl with bouncing abundant blonde hair . . . and breasts. She came to the couch where I lay, and in her shapely hands I saw a golden urn, larger than the bronze one which had held my late uncle’s ashes. She murmured, “Zees will not ’urt one beet.” And then she reached one hand down to caress my virile member, which already stood in a state of excitement. “Relax,” she breathed, and, barely managing to raise my head, I saw her tilt the urn and pour from it some thick, amber liquid that flowed as sluggishly as molasses in January. It dripped upon the head of my erect penis and oozed down onto the shaft.

I half-expected it to be cold, but it tingled with a sort of vital warmth, and felt not sticky, but quite pleasant. When my entire one-eyed monster had been coated, Francine, humming a happy little tune, set aside the urn and put both her palms around my erection. Moving with the grace of a sculptor, she shaped and formed the mass of semi-liquid coating, making my manhood apparently grow in length and girth—and soon enough I felt the strange potion actually merging with my tissues. The amber tone faded and it took on the hues of my own member, the pale-colored veiny shaft, the purplish-red swollen helmet. I could feel everything—the material had exquisite sensitivity, and I could even detect the fine pattern of the Frenchwoman’s fingerprints!

Francine looked at me impishly, then cupped both of her magnificent breasts in her hands, trapped my fleshy torpedo between them, and began to move up and down. “You like zees, oui?” she purred.

“Oui!” I said with enthusiasm, for the soft caress of her mammary flesh was indescribably warm and stimulating. I felt a continual throbbing, and for some time it seemed to me as though my flesh down there had become an amorphous thing, expertly shaped by the comely Frenchwoman, growing all the while, until finally she raised herself and beamed at her handiwork.

“Magnifique!” she declared, her pink tongue licking her ruby lips.

Despite my state of semi-intoxication, I had to agree. My lingam jutted at least ten inches from my groin—easily six inches more than its customary state of arousal!—and its thickness had markedly increased. Somehow the dense potion had become a living part of me!

“What tenebrous enchantment is this?” I asked thickly.

“Easy, stud. We want you to measure up to your ancestor,” Mercy said. “And you do and then some! As leader of the coven, I claim the right of first trial.”

With that, she swung a shapely leg across the couch, giving me a wonderful view of her gloriously rounded buttocks. In the golden effulgence of the twinkling sparks, I could see the shiny pinkness of her womanly slit glistening already with moisture. She firmly grasped my augmented rod, settled herself down, and I felt her soft secret folds open and slip back and forth over the head of my little Stevie, gliding fluidly and coating me with her intimate juices. Then she slipped down, impaling herself. I felt some freedom of motion returning to my flaccid limbs, and I reached up to grasp her thighs just where they joined her hips. “Hold on,” she said, looking merrily back at me over her shoulder. “You’re in for a ride!”

The other twelve young women sighed audibly and moaned as she began to pound up and down, riding my long dong up, up, up, and then down hard again. I saw her marvelously shaped ass cheeks flatten and rebound time after time, I felt the firm but slippery grasp of her inward woman, I felt a mounting pressure.

I saw that the others, gathered close around us, were stroking their own delicate slits with eager fingers, swaying, pinching their nipples with their free hands, biting their nether lips, and I heard them moaning aloud.

Suddenly Mercy jerked and quivered and screamed, “Fuck, yeah! Oh, fuck!”

Then she moved off me, still panting. I saw that her breasts were swollen, the coral-coloured nipples jutting like thumbs. She came to my head, leaned down, and kissed me full on the lips, her own mouth writhing, her tongue playfully making an entrance to touch mine. Then she pulled away. “You can’t come yet, my dear,” she murmured. “Not until we’ve all had a turn.”

How can I describe the rest of that night? As the power of movement gradually returned to me, I was able to participate more fully. I took some of the women from behind, me standing, they bending far forward to grasp their own ankles, wriggling and writhing most sensuously as they groaned with pleasure; I took some from atop me, they lying on me, their knees braced athwart my hips, and their hot, effort-moistened breasts slapping against my chest. Others wanted to suck my newly-grown sprout while their sisters eagerly lapped at their slits; one whispered that she desired me to explore her tighter passage; and as hours passed, each of them in turn shuddered and sometimes positively gushed with release, but Mercy held me back from the verge of orgasm.

When all had been served, Francine brought forth a basin of fragrant water and washed me lovingly and thoroughly, and then, at Mercy’s request, I took her once again, as a bridegroom takes his bride, with me properly atop her and she wrapping her long, strong legs around my waist, gripping me as I rutted. As she neared her second climax, she smiled and said softly, “Now you can come.”

And so I did; I felt as though gallons of primal ooze jetted from me. She moved, freeing my turgid fire hose, I rolled onto my back, and white ropes of semen flew through the air like streamers flung at an orgiastic celebration. The other women bathed in it, letting the glistening liquid coat their breasts and faces, rubbing it into each other’s skins with their eager palms, even lapping it with hungry tongues.

As dawn broke, my member subsided—but even in its unexcited form, it now was something to admire! “Am I then your master?” I asked with weary pleasure as I caressed Mercy’s breasts with one hand, Francine’s with my right. Both of their nipples responded, jutting out and begging for lips and tongue.

“No, I’m afraid you’re our slave,” Mercy said, cupping my scrotum playfully. “The spells I’ve cast make it impossible for you to disobey me. For example, get another erection right now.”

With a surge, my manhood inflated like a sausage skin being stuffed with savory meat. Francine giggled at the sight.

“Now come,” Mercy instructed, and I yelped as a second great orgasm seized and shook me like a terrier worrying a bone. Francine leant down and capped the gusher with her lips, swallowing greedily. Mercy stroked her palms over my chest and said, “My sweet Stephen, your servitude will be joy. You will live in this house, fuck us any time you—or we—wish, father our daughters, and be the center of all our adoration. If you wish to travel, you are free to go anywhere in the world you desire—as long as no fewer than three of us accompany you as your assistants, your personal guard, and your mistresses. If you wish to gamble, you may go to Las Vegas and enjoy supernatural good luck—our spells will make you a spectacular gambler; if you wish to cavort with movie stars or those trashy and abandoned young singers, we will seduce them for you and lead them to your waiting cock; and your pleasant life will be a long one—for Jedidiah was actually two hundred years old when he finally passed away, and our powers can similarly extend your lifespan—and entirely content. Think carefully, now. I give you one moment of freedom. Do you accept servitude with us?”

That demanded some pondering. I pondered for nearly a full second. “Hell, yes!” I yelled.

And so here in the Jardin de Plaisir I am, and here I shall remain. My—mistresses? Harem? Adorers? My women are fantastic and talented, my lusts though insatiable are somehow always satiated, and as one might say, I am one happy fucker.

And yet . . . . Mercy confided one day that they were very impressed that I, a virgin, had so quickly adjusted to the life of the virile stud. I thanked her but did not admit the great secret of my life. Perhaps I never shall.

For though the witches of Wycham do not realize it, I came to their village not as a virgin at all. In the wild hills of Virginia, my father had inducted me into the knowledge of the Great Old Ones. In particular, I had joined in the orgiastic services worshiping Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Forest with a Thousand Young.

And in truth . . . .

Each and every one of the thousand young, I am told, in appearance rather favours me.