accident. By his mid-thirties, part of his burgeoning business empire included the promotion of club nights aimed at students in university towns. He used a DJ who did a surprisingly good set of goth/dance music mixes that seemed to wow the new wave of emos, who were far more into having fun than the morbid soap-dodging goths of his college days. The nights grew in popularity – especially because it was strictly forbidden to bring in drugs. Doormen were very thorough with their searches and woe betide anyone trying to smuggle gear inside. Once in, however, and suddenly all manner of drugs were apparently on offer, all of good quality and at very fair prices, available from certain shady-looking gentlemen who just happened to be in the employ of the promoter.
One night he was watching as the DJ was whipping up the crowd. One girl, with short pink punk hair, clearly under the influence, suddenly decided that the only way to truly embody the excitement of the music was to take her top off. She jumped around waving her hands in the air, her little tiny-nippled tits bouncing free. Then her red tartan miniskirt was off and she was leaping around, singing her head off, in just shiny black Doc Martens boots and a pair of short, pink, lacy knickers.
It was the most arresting sight he could remember. She looked wild and free and gorgeous. Some of her friends seemed to be going to follow suit, but this girl was getting too heated and as she bounced around to the music her hand went down between her legs to squeeze at her crotch. Even this he would have allowed but the girl was too pumped up to keep it at that. When she took her hand off her crotch and thrust it inside her knickers, he clicked his fingers and his bouncers went into action.
He had the girl immediately ejected from the dancefloor and thrown across his office desk, where he gave her what she was literally crying out for. It was probably the most frantic fuck of his life. Her frenzied shamelessness was a real turn-on. He loved the fact that she had publicly stripped and paraded her half-bare arse even though it was plump enough to be marked by little dimples in the surface. He adored her young white flesh when she was bent over in front of him. It was nearly glorious. Only her fatly lewd, dark-lipped cunt made her look too lascivious to be perfect.
It was only after she had been turned out onto the street that he wished he had taken more time to study this girl and make more use of her. He missed her flagrant disregard for morals. He decided that he must encourage the same in others. He began running similar nights after hours in a pub he had recently acquired, which he renamed the Bag o’ Nails, in honour of the ancient Bacchanals to be restaged there. The nights were only a partial success. He hired young prostitutes to get high and dance around and then strip off, in the hope of encouraging the paying female guests to do the same. Although the flyers on each table showed pictures of nymphs in unabashed action, the local ‘nymphs’ all seemed too reticent. The nights mainly consisted of the prostitutes being manhandled by fat middle-aged men in leather trousers.
He didn’t like the lack of spontaneity, or the fact that the street girls looked so rough and used. He wanted real girls, ones driven by lust for flesh rather than for money, ones like that pink-haired punk at the club. He started advertising in select publications for ‘witches and bitches’ to attend his Bacchanalian nights, promising free drinks and even accommodation. For once he didn’t even care if the nights only turned a small profit. He just wanted to watch a room full of horny young females getting naked and wild. The thought of ‘normal’ girls being driven into a frenzy made him insatiable.
One evening a couple of nubile goth-witch bitches showed up. The night ended with them simultaneously fingering one of his barmaids while she pinched her own bare nipples, under his instruction. He was about to service both these girls but they told him they belonged to their Priestess and pointed into the shadows. In the gloomy corner was their Mistress, one Morgana Innamorato. He took out his erect cock but she refused it, the first female ever to dare do so. Notwithstanding this awkward start, they soon got on well, kindred spirits as they were, although it helped that she granted him his wish and let him have both the bitches, side by side, over his desk.
Whilst he pounded the girls from behind, Morgana told him of her worship of the god Bacchus, how she was the reincarnation of Paculla Annia and had her own coven of orgy-loving girls. These girls loved their Priestess but they needed a god. It was obvious by the way he had these bitches creaming and screaming that she meant him. He was, after all, a huge-cocked, bald-headed giant with captivating, chilling eyes. It was clear she would never in her life meet anyone more imposing and extraordinary, more suitably divine. If he agreed to be their focus of worship, they would give him all the private Bacchanals he could handle. It seemed the ideal set-up.
However, as always, there was a catch. She told him of her problem in keeping her coven together, of needing to find somewhere for them to act out their rites in secret. She owned a cottage in the grounds of an ancient estate, but the landlord was rightly suspicious of her activities. She feared eviction, especially as the landlord was in dire financial straits and was under pressure to sell off some of the estate, which could have proved difficult with a renowned witch living there. If she was thrown out the coven would dissolve, ruining years of careful planning. That’s where he came in, their god and saviour.
He agreed to discuss helping, once Morgana had agreed to suck his balls and put her finger up his backside.
‘I am your god, after all,’ he said with a smile.
It warmed his cold heart to get this mad Priestess on her knees. Nonetheless, a partnership with her certainly appealed. She was more ravishing than any woman he had seen and her love of the more licentious practices of classical civilisation was uncannily close to his own. Anyway, if his full, prosperous life was missing anything then it was surely an on-tap bevy of lusty witch-girls to service him. It was about time he was showered with the adoration he deserved. He liked how pure these girls were with their pale skin. They reminded him of the pink-haired punk that he had so stupidly let slip. Morgana gave one of her wolfish grins and told him it was all due to the potions she fed them. He liked that word ‘potions’. It meant they were on the same wavelength.
Morgana then stood and slowly stripped, showing off her Amazonian figure and flawless white skin. There was not a mark upon it. Her breasts were large, firm, with small pink nipples. There was flesh to her but no excess anywhere. Her belly was smooth and indented with a deep button. Her pussy was hairless and cute, a little dark line splitting her soft mons. Her hips were wide and her bottom was the most perfect he had ever seen – plump, with a lovely round curve and no suggestion of sag despite its weight.
‘I am ageless,’ she said. ‘I have spells that can make me look this way for all time. Even in this current incarnation I am over four hundred years old.’
With anyone else such talk might have been met with a jeering response, but for one who considered himself the Kurgan made flesh such talk of immortality only fired his soul.
The girls were now at the feet of their Priestess. He decided he had to have her and grasped her arms and pushed her onto all fours. Her peachy bottom was so smooth and sweet-smelling he was almost overwhelmed by the need to sink his teeth into it. His fat erection was only millimetres from her delectable sex when she suddenly looked back over her shoulder, fiery-eyed. She babbled some incantation and pointed at his erection, and he watched it helplessly deflate.
He sneered as she nonchalantly got up and dressed, telling him that she was someone he would never have. He wasn’t beaten yet, though.
‘If I can’t have you,’ he said, ‘then I must have the next best thing. All your girls must have exactly the same body as you. The big breasts I can live without, but the skin must be as pure as yours, the pussy as pristine and neat, the hips and rump exactly the same size as yours.’
He was clearly enjoying this plan to become their god, and so it was agreed. If he would provide the base, Morgana would attract the girls and build the coven. She would oversee and teach the girls, and they
