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

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