Here's a taste of an old fantasy novel of mine, Burning Bright. The excerpt is from near the beginning - our hero comes-to wounded, tied up and with no memory of who he is.
The drumbeat pounded in his head, the darkness spun in a circle around him - but when he opened his eyes again there was silence. He and the two women were alone in the room.
The witch came over and knelt by his pallet, her breasts till heaving from the exertion of her dance and little streaks of moisture tracked through the ash. Her nipples were hard under their grey dusting. She patted her thigh, signalling to the girl who laid aside her drum and joined her.
‘My spirits tell me,’ said the witch, ‘that the fever spirit is a red centipede. It must be sucked out of him. With his seed.’ She looked slyly at her companion. ‘They said that you should do it.’
The girl made an 'o' with her mouth and shook her head, her eyes suddenly unable to fix upon the supine body before her.
‘Tch,’ clicked the witch with her tongue; ‘you're too old to be afraid of men, Mehetchi. If you weren't my apprentice you'd have been married by now.’
‘I'm not afraid - I just don't want to,’ the girl said, wriggling. ‘He's a foreigner.’
‘A man is a man. There's no difference to speak of. Anyway; his hands are tied: what are you worried about?’
He then realised that the pressure he'd felt across his back was a length of cord attached to either wrist. A cold stab of fear ran up his belly.
The girl hissed between her teeth. ‘I don't … I’m not ready for this,’ she muttered.
‘Don't give me that, girl. You’re training to be a spirit-talker, so don't tell me you're squeamish. You do what the spirits instruct.’
The girl stuck out her lower lip but didn't reply. Her colour was high. He wasn’t capable of imagining what she was feeling, but he knew he didn't want this at all. He was too weak to protest, but his muscles clenched in painful cramp. This wasn’t how he wanted it; not tied down and helpless, picked over by two witches like a couple of vultures on a corpse. He tried to protest, but came out as a groan.
The witch poked his right nipple sharply. ‘Don't be impatient, you,’ she admonished. ‘Now Mehetchi, pull that down. Take a look. It won't bite; this serpent has no teeth.’
He felt a cooler flutter of air as the girl reluctantly turned down the sheet over his thighs. Thin trickles of sweat crawled over his hips and down to the small of his back.
‘It's not so bad, is it, girl?’
The younger witch made a face. ‘It's ugly. Not sweet and smooth like a woman's.’
This drew a bark of laughter from her elder. ‘It's sweet enough, girl! And soft and smooth most of the time, the tenderest part of a man until he starts to imagine somewhere even more tender to put it. Now this one though, he's already thinking on your plump lips, Mehetchi.’ She flicked his cock with one long nail; he couldn't see his own reaction but he could certainly feel it. ‘Hee! Look at it jump! The fish are biting tonight!’ Mehetchi's eyes widened. ‘These are things you have to learn, to be a spirit-talker,’ the other told her. ‘Now go on; put your hand on it.’
Mehetchi obeyed slowly, her cool fingers circling his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut but it made no matter.
‘How is it?’
‘Hot. Every bit of him is fevered.’
‘Not so soft now?’
Her hand hefted his flesh uncertainly. ‘It's getting heavier. It moves in my hand like an animal,’ she observed.
‘Ah; you must pet it like an animal then. Stroke it gently. Yes; like that.’
Her apprentice was wary. ‘What will it do?’
‘It’ll get harder still.’
‘I don't like it hard. It was nicer before. Look: it's too big and ugly already.’
‘But it must get as hard as it can before it’ll spill its seed. Harder than a length of mahogany. See how much bigger it is now? He may be weak with fever, but his flesh is still charged with life.’ She raised a finger. ‘Listen, child; you must understand that a man feels desire just as a woman does, but there’s more than one spirit in his flesh. The prick of a man has a spirit of its own that moves it without his intention. It brings flesh into being from the spirit-world. It makes him rise even when he has no thought of lust in his heart. When he sleeps, the prick-spirit stirs. When he wants to piss, it won't let him. It can be very strong, very cunning. More cunning than the man's own spirit. Look at that serpent - has it any eyes?’
‘No. Only a mouth.’
‘There, you see; a prick-spirit is blind. To it all women are the same. Old and young, pretty and ugly. A prick is as happy with the arse of a goat as with that of a girl. Heh! - a man will fuck mud when his prick is in charge. He’ll do anything to obey it. That's why they are dangerous.’
Mehetchi made a face and squeezed him savagely until his spine arched.
‘This spirit is treacherous, child. It can trick a man into believing he desires a woman, when really he finds her repulsive. Only when the prick-spirit has had its way will he realise that he never wanted her. And then, when he approaches the girl he lusts after the most, the prick-spirit may abandon him, and for all his desire he then will be unable to stiffen for her. When you’re a full spirit-talker, you’ll find that many men, or their wives, will come to you to complain that their prick-spirit has fled. It’ll be your job to search out the spirit wherever it has hidden and bring it back to his body.’
‘Where do they go?’
‘Into the Underworld. I’ll show you the place later. I’ll teach you a song to call them, and another to send them back, should you ever need to.’
‘And what about those below?’
‘Go on; touch them. They're nothing to fear. They’re soft like ripe fruits.’
Mehetchi knelt forward. ‘They're wrinkled like they've hung on the stem too long then! Ugh!’ She giggled, her eyes flashing.
He felt the humiliation writhe in his belly.
‘Those are the source of all his seed. The spirits of all his descendants wait there, anxious to see the light of life. Often they’re too eager and they pour out when there is no womb to receive them. That is your task now. You must draw his seed out and hold it in your mouth; the fever will come with it.’
The girl licked her lips nervously, and even that sight sent a spasm through his helpless flesh.
‘The serpent's mouth is wet! Is that his seed?’
‘Hah!’ the older woman snorted. ‘No – he’s just impatient, child. His prick drools like a toothless old man before his dinner. Suck it.’
No, he said, but his voice went unheard.
There was a moment's pause, a flutter of breath and then Mehetchi 's mouth - cool and soft and liquid - wrapped itself around the burning head of his cock. He groaned, and the embrace became a sucking before it was then was cruelly withdrawn.
‘It tastes salty,’ she murmured. ‘Not so bad. Not as bitter as the vision-beer.’
‘Keep sucking. Lick him,’ her mentor instructed. ‘He likes that. See; his muscles are like stone.’
She obeyed. He felt the fever rip through his bones, a grinding ache that became a fire as it mounted to his skull.
‘When his snake spits into your mouth you must catch it. Whatever you do, don't swallow, or you'll take the fever into your own body. I have a pot here. You must spit the centipede into that.’
The girl mumbled agreement, her lips wrapped around his erection. He could have screamed for frustration at the teasing, infuriating gentleness of her touch, without rhythm or expertise. Her tongue lapped and slithered but to no purpose; she didn't command his cock, only played with it. He wanted to catch her head and thrust deep into her throat but he didn't have the strength or the reach and could only strain uselessly against his weakened frame, his teeth bared.
‘It's not working,’ Mehetchi moaned, after long waves of glorious torment had rolled over his shaking body for what seemed like forever. ‘I can't do it.’
He managed to pull one deep gasp into his lungs and then let the breath out in a moan of frustration. ‘You are at the wrong angle,’ said the witch shrewdly. ‘Turn around. Straddle his chest.’ She guided the girl until she was kneeling astride him, her feet tucked under his shoulders, the tight red cloth of her skirt filling his view. He got one glance down between their bodies as her mouth closed about his monolithic cock again, but then that vision was eclipsed by the scarlet curves of thighs and buttocks. The witch was right; this was a better angle for him, he would have been able to push further into her throat if only his thighs had been able to obey him, or his spine had been more than a limp rope of hot pain, or the pressure in his skull wasn’t threatening to split the bone. This is going to kill me, he thought.
Then an ash-pale hand descended from the shadows onto Mehetchi's scarlet up-thrust rump. The girl quivered. The hand gripped and stroked and ran smoothly up the tight fabric of the skirt in a confident, soothing, commanding caress that seemed to release the girl from uncertainty. Then it slid down and caught the edge of the material, pulling the skirt up to reveal to him the golden-brown skin of splayed thighs. He could not look away. Higher and higher the skirt was rucked, until it slipped up over the curves of the girl’s beautiful bottom and left them entirely naked, framing the dusky pear-shaped glory of her sex.
Mehetchi gasped; he felt the cold inhalation up the length of his cock.
The young witch was possessed of a powerful charm that had nothing to do with spirits. Her plump mons was fluffed with the darkest, downiest hair and her rosy inner lips peeped from behind this curtain, hinting at a deeper cleft hidden within. Her anus was like a velvet flower. He felt the fevered blood boil in his veins at the sight. And he could feel something else rising within him too: not just the bubble of orgasm but something harder, more compact, like a pebble forcing its way up his throat.
Then the older woman's filthy hands slid down from above, parting the buttocks, stroking the soft fur. Mehetchi moaned in shame and jerked as if about to tear herself away. The hands restrained her, gentle but strong, patting the soft mound, soothing that quivering sex.
It was a name, that pebble. A name.
‘Mata!’ the girl whimpered, her voice all but unintelligible around the thickening shaft of his cock. But the older witch was merciless. Her ash-stained fingers parted those innermost lips, laying bare the mysteries of her maiden sex to his eyes. He could see the pink pearl of her clitoris and the tender, vulnerable mouth of her hole. He could see the moisture, slippery as oil, clear as water, welling up to slick the swelling tissues. He could smell the sharp perfume of her arousal and see the wetness gleaming on the witch's fingers, no longer dusty-pale. Those fingertips closed now on the exposed bud of her clit and stirred her beyond endurance.
The name was his own. It rode the swelling tide of his fervour, a black and jagged rock borne on the flood, and he leapt to catch it.
Mehetchi squealed with pleasure and shame - and at the cry and the sight Veraine erupted at last.
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