Witch Switch

*Image owned by the magical May More*

After many (ye gods, far too many) months of not being able to do words, I’m finally back with a quickie for Halloween. This is a fun one but, with any luck, I’ll be back to my spooky self with the next 🦇

Wild winds howl through the narrow spaces around me. Nails creak and bend, sliding slowly from splintering beams. I flutter my lashes to ward off clouds of dust, catching glimpses of twisted foundations inches from the hook of my nose, and feel a fury unlike any I have ever felt before.

Mostly it’s directed inward. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t heard the stories. It’s not as if my kind aren’t warned from birth that no good ever comes of venturing to this, the farthest end of the Road. It’s just that I never believed it could happen to me.

Yet here I am, trapped beneath a shabby old shack with my legs sticking out all over the place and my skirts blustering in the breeze. Even so, I do consider myself lucky. Even so, I do consider myself lucky. The last time it rained a house the poor soul caught in the storm landed awkwardly beneath a heavy beam and, well, that was the end of her. Nobody missed her; not even her own sister. Oh, Westie got mad alright, but that was more to do with the fact that some upstart had snatched the very shoes right off of poor Eastie’s feet before her legs were even cold.

But me? I’m shaken but quite alive, and my shoes aren’t worth stealing, so I guess I’ll have to wait until someone comes along to release me.

While I wait, I watch spiders start to set up home above me. Skittering and weaving, their glassy-eyed stares making a few curious flies nervous. I tell off a snake for swallowing a mouse right by my face without offering to share, and advise a few squirrels that beneath a broken old house is no place to store their wares for the winter… they should find a bonfire and hide them in there.

As I’m busy giving a frog instructions to retrieve a jar of batwing soup from the basket I dropped, I smell it.

Sunshine. Sugar. Sweetness. The air reeks of it. Glimmers with it. I hear the twinkling of stars in the swish of taffeta, the singing of birds in an unsurprised sigh. My nose wrinkles in protest, my hackles rise and my toes curl.

Why couldn’t the dim scarecrow have found me? Or the scaredy-cat, or the heartless, metal menace. Even the old charlatan with the balloon would have done, but no. Of all the people in all the land, I had to get rescued by this bitch.

She doesn’t speak, all she does is giggle. Her laugh is a tinkling of bells that stabs at my ears, pierces my brain and makes me want to scream. Threaded through those infuriating sounds is a barrage of questions, messages and suggestions.

Why did you come to the end of the Road?

Don’t you ever tire of being one of the wicked?

You could do so much good in the world if you would only change your ways.

Let me help you see the light.

Filling my lungs with as much grimy air as they’ll hold, I open my mouth and release an almighty cackle. The tinkling of bells is drowned out by the screeching of birds, the howling of wolves, the chirping of bats.

“I am darker than night, blacker than pitch, as wicked as those who went before me,” I caw from my prison beneath the battered old hovel. “What do you imagine you can do to me?”

Everything becomes still and quiet. Glittering particles dance with dust motes above my face. This assures me that she has not gone, so this new silence is almost as eerie as her laugh. I still don’t fear her, though, for there is nothing she can do to alter me. I am unmoveable, unchangeable, impervious to…

What is that?

Something hard and spiked is touching my knee. It’s cool and light, but despite that, I start to burn. I can almost hear the sizzle of my tights fraying and the pop of my skin blistering. But this is goody-goody Glinda, so somewhere deep inside of me, I know that I must be imagining it.

Still, the heat is real. It spreads up my thigh, sets fire to my skirts, flashes over my hips, down my waist, licks the curves of my cheeks. I refuse to scream, I bite my fist to hold it inside. I know that it isn’t fire that’s consuming me, it’s goodness. Pure, unadulterated good magic and I know now what the hard, spiked thing is. It’s the star atop her bloody wand!

My tights have sizzled to nothing and I feel a warm rush of air in a place that hasn’t ever seen the light of day before. I know Glinda can hear my thoughts, so I think the word, spitting it at her with glee.

“That’s right, it’s my cunt. You’re looking at my cunt in all it’s unshaved, unseen glory. It’s always wet so I bet it glistens almost as much as you do. Take a deep breath, Good Witch. Do you smell me?”

Glinda makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan and I grin, delighted to have made her uncomfortable.

But wait…

The hardness of the wand is back, but instead of being spiked it’s smooth. Rounded. Inching closer, closer, skimming one plump lip then the other. I thrash my legs, hiss through my teeth, ball my fists and pound the ground in defiance of the waves of heat that sink into my skin.

Blood fills my mouth and tears blur my vision as Glinda strokes the end of her wand over my cunt, skimming the nub at the top with maddening softness until I’m grunting and growling. I drag images of my past misdoings to the front of my mind and try to wrap myself in them, a blanket of malice to protect me from her loving touch.

All too quickly I realise that the wickeder my thoughts are, the firmer her touch becomes. Strokes become harsh rubs, taps become slaps, and glitter swirls so thickly around me I start to choke on it.

Thoughts of excitement try to force their way into my mind, but I bury them deep. Smother them in delightful memories of cruelty and torture, some of which I performed on Glinda’s very friends.

With an anguished cry, Glinda drops to her knees beside me and I start to laugh, sure that I’ve won, but the sharp sting of her wand jabbing into my cunt freezes my mirth in my throat. She is no longer treating me with the gentility of a Good Witch.

The wand jerks in and out of me, sometimes shallow and fast, other times deep and slow. She twists it, angles the tip down so I feel a throbbing ache in my anus. Twists again until it’s rubbing the same spot over and over until my muscles stiffen with tension and I come perilously close to shattering my own jaw when I clench my teeth.

“What can I do to you?” Glinda says in a voice too gravelly, too deep to belong to her. “I can fuck the badness out of you, you wicked little witch!”

Filling my mind with hate, with aching need, with vicious thoughts and bilious words, I pull her mind closer. My body works in time with hers, lifting to draw her wand deeper, grinding when I feel the heel of her hand rest against my clit.

And then I’m melting, trembling and twitching, panting and rocking as I come for Glinda. Malevolence bleeds from my body with each pulse of my cunt and gathers in murky, roiling pools that slither and bubble towards the witch on the other side of the rotted wall.

I try to listen but my own blood pounds in my ears, shutting off all sound. But I feel the shaking. I feel the air warping, see little sparkles of glitter expand before disappearing with the dazzling flashes of a billion stars all blinking out at once.

The house that imprisons me explodes and once the dust settles, I find myself lying at the end of a broken yellow road, legs wide, cunt still twitching. A dark-haired witch stands by my feet with a gleaming black wand in her hand. Though she is different, I still know her. And I think I’m going to like this version of her much more than I did the other one.


Week 267

The Things We Do for Love

The high-pitched, whining buzz drowns out the quiet music, just for a few seconds, and I stiffen. I search his face and find nothing but patience in his eyes, an encouraging smile tilting his lips. He raises his brows, a question, my answer is a nod. Satisfaction. That’s what his smile is showing now.

I don’t watch as he smooths his fingers over my skin. Don’t flinch when his bike chain bracelet clinks against my belly bar. I just look at the light blinking in the window, reading the neon words backwards. One of them is his name. It’s a palindrome. No matter which way you look at it, it’s his. I focus on it, face neutral, but I’m gnawing away at the inside of my cheek, concentrating hard on remaining still. Continue reading “The Things We Do for Love”

Chaos [Horror Erotica]

When I saw that the prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday was ‘Twisted’ the first thing that popped into my head was one of my semi-abandoned works in progress. A while back, I decided to try my hand at writing a book’s worth of horror erotica (or horrotica), but I couldn’t get my story straight in my head so I whacked it on the back burner. It’s been there, simmering away, for some time now.

In recent weeks, though, I’ve turned my attention back to it and it’s been taking up a sizeable chunk of my writing time. This (unedited) excerpt is a wee sample of what I’ve been working on while I’ve been neglecting the blog. It’s priddy nasty, so arm yourself with this (consensual) sexual violence CW before you go in…

Zaimi appeared in front of me. It was the first time I’d seen him in days. The others took one look at him and scurried away like deer fleeing from a wolf, but he didn’t even spare them a glance. His eyes, as black and intense as ever, were fixed on me. As he studied my face, his brow furrowed, his gaze focusing on my cheek. With the backs of his fingers, he stroked the spot where the flying lung had hit me, smearing blood down to the corner of my mouth. I wasn’t even tempted to slip my tongue out for a sneaky taste. Not this time.

“I don’t even need to bother punishing you, do I?” His tone was as intimate as a lover’s, and it made me sick. “You’re doing my job for me.” Continue reading “Chaos [Horror Erotica]”

Sugar Lips

“You ready?”

Curtis had June’s chin clamped between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged a bit, lifting her head so he could stare intently into her glassy eyes. She was fuck-tired, floppy, probably close to the point where he’d safeword on her behalf. But she made the effort to hold her lids open, nod her head and slur a single word.

“Green.”

Curtis hesitated, watching June carefully to ensure she really was still in the game. Certain that she had a little bit of life left in her, Curtis pulled her jaw until she parted her lips. Her tongue automatically snaked out and pressed against her chin, suck-job ready. Curtis hesitated again. Did she have enough energy left? Could she stay with him while he used her mouth the way he’d been using her cunt for the last hour? Continue reading “Sugar Lips”

A Gift to the Gods


Image owned by The Barefoot Sub

On the face of it, today was a day that began much like any other. Jessa rose with the sun, smiled down upon the small, round faces of her still sleeping siblings as she slipped on her often-mended dress. She breakfasted with her father, then joined her mother at the door of their clay and stone hut. As always, they waited there for the rest of the village women to join them on their walk to the river to bathe.

As she stood quietly beside her mother, tracing swirling shapes into the dry, dusty ground with her bare toes, Jessa tried hard to convince herself that it was just another spring day. But although her breakfast of eggs and fish was routine, her father’s uneasy silence was not. Although she was used to her mother casting her gaze around the village to note who was on time and who would be late by the colour of smoke puffing through chimney holes, she was not used to her shifting her weight from foot to foot, or chewing her nails to the quick in agitation. Continue reading “A Gift to the Gods”

Supernatural Erotica – Nemesis

This little tale was supposed to have been the next instalment in the A to Z Challenge I took part in (and failed) in April. I may have abandoned the challenge, but I love writing supernatural erotica so couldn’t abandon the story.

It had been said that, when Fame came to men in their dreams, she brought beauty, comfort, and warmth. Some reported that she had the face of an angel, the body of a Goddess, others that she was indiscernible, unknowable. They claimed to have felt real love pouring from her heart into theirs, they swore that she’d revealed mysteries and secrets of the world but that, once she was gone, they couldn’t hold onto anything more substantial than the knowledge of her visit.

The only thing they all agreed on was that, for her, they would continue to fight consciousness, would even drug themselves in their desperation to return to and remain in the hazy world she inhabited. For her, men would embrace ruin.

Slipping through the crack of an open window, Fame shook her head in amusement. To them she was everything, but to her, they were little more than food. Continue reading “Supernatural Erotica – Nemesis”

M is for… My Sacrifice

Concealed by shadows in the corner of a spacious room, Magda clutches her robe to her breast. Silence weighs upon her and the rest of the room’s occupants like a heavy blanket, even though more than a dozen robed people have gathered in front of a small dais. Upon it, two men with their heads close together converse in mouthed words and hand gestures. They’re deliberating the fate of a third man, who kneels, head bowed, at the foot of the few short steps leading onto the dais.

Though she knows what the judgement will be, Magda cannot stop her heart from aching. She cannot bring her breathing – or her shivering – under control. Being a part of this preordained event and yet separate from it until her part comes proves to be impossible. She cannot drag her eyes away, does not want to. Every blink is resented for even a heartbeat of not being able to see his profile through the gaps in the curtain of his hair is agony to her. Continue reading “M is for… My Sacrifice”

L is for… La Belle et la Bête

It wasn’t the moon casting its frosty light across her face that woke Belle from a deep slumber. Nor was it the winter breeze drifting in through the open window and chilling any exposed skin it could find. In fact, it wasn’t anything discernible at all. It was a feeling deep within her soul, a sense of expectancy strong enough to rouse her even though she had been given a potent sleeping potion which had been carefully prepared for her by the old witch in the wood.

Swinging her feet to the floor, Belle wiggled her toes to alleviate the sting from the cold stone. She padded to the window and knelt on the cushioned seat there, pushing the shutters slowly wider to prevent the tell-tale creak from giving her away. If her father discovered that the potion hadn’t been potent enough, she dreaded to think what lengths he’d go to next time. Continue reading “L is for… La Belle et la Bête”

K is for… King for a Day

I watch in dismay as Syd slams his fourth empty pint glass on the pub table and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, before throwing his arms in the air. Bastard has won again. Why it surprises me I don’t know, he wins every bloody week. So far I – the Loser – have had to foot the booze bill for a night, I’ve had to buy pizzas on the way home, and walk to the shops for smokes in the pissing down rain.

Up until tonight, all of our weekly forfeits have been light on awkwardness and heavy on the wallet, mostly because I, the reasonable one, have chosen the tasks. But this week Syd asked if he could choose and, naively, I said yes.

Banging his hand on the table and laughing at me as I sink the last dregs of my pint, Syd starts to chant.

“King for a day, king for a day! Sun up to sun down, I’ll be king for a day!”

Fuck. May God strike me down on the way home to save me from tomorrow. Continue reading “K is for… King for a Day”

J is for… Jacob’s Ladder

With a rock for a pillow, Jacob took up rest on the ground, studying the night sky above him. Oh, the stars! How brightly they shone. How magnificent heaven must be for it to illuminate even its borders with such beauty. Jacob didn’t think he would ever tire of gazing up there, searching for the shining streak that revealed the journeying of an angel, even though he knew it would not happen. He had seen it once, long ago, so he was certain that it wasn’t for a man to see such wonder twice in one lifetime.

Though he wanted to remain awake, to hold on to possibility, Jacob’s eyelids bested him. As the world around him grew darker, he became warmer. Then warmer still, as though he were sitting by a fire at the peak of its intensity. The heat thickened the damp night air, making every breath he took feel like breathing underwater.

For a terrifying moment, Jacob thought he would drown. He was blinded, unable to move, prone and vulnerable on the ground with nothing but his cloak to shield him from these unnatural elements. Panic was seizing control of his heart but then something changed. Continue reading “J is for… Jacob’s Ladder”