“I don’t need to see you to know you are ungodly in the extreme, a sinner without remorse, because you work for and with he who slaughtered fifty good men in the desert, he who tortures me day and night. So I know it intrinsically, just as I know that the Lord is different to a demon and that night is different to day.”
Her visitor paused for a moment. “You seem unhappy. How about I help you relax?”
Penelope stiffened when a hand graced her shoulder, one with nails long enough to be weapons and numerous patterns cut into its flesh with a fine blade. It rubbed the muscles it found there and Penelope felt that horrid lust rising in her.
She pulled away, turned so she would not be surprised her again but this didn’t last long; she gasped on seeing her visitor.
Naked, she stood in the cold chamber as though fully dressed. Obese with speckled rolls of fat tumbling from her skeleton and dark hair to compliment them, her eyes held an open threat of rape and her whole body was covered in those same patterns; round her swollen, misshapen legs, across her gut and down even to her… her own secret place. Though calling it that seemed ludicrous; a steady stream of wetness trailed from there, down her legs and to her ankles where it pooled, making it anything but secret. Unlike on her hand, the cuts across her body were open. They bled slowly, looked as though they would never heal.
Penelope’s eye was drawn to the fetish her visitor ‘wore’; it looked like a tooth taken from a cruel beast with suggestive shapes fastened to the thickest end with black twine. These body-parts were carved from a dark wood and highly polished so they danced in the firelight. The fetish was lodged in one of the witch’s areolae as though it had been stabbed there by a hated enemy and looking at it made her feel more wrong than anything in Penelope’s life ever had, the Bacchanals included.
“Do you like what you see?” the witch asked, cupping the pierced breast. She lowered her torch, some soaked rags loosely hanging from a length of pipe, to give Penelope a better view as she worked her hand across the nipple. Her eyes half-closed in pleasure. “I bet you do.”
“You are a heathen and a monster,” Penelope spat. She slowly backed away, though there wasn’t far for her to go. “The Lord shall judge you harshly and St Peter shall have no choice but to cast you into the pit.”
“Really?” the woman asked, still rolling her nipple between her fingers. Her voice held a worrying degree of confidence. “And you know this for a fact?”
“I do,” Penelope nodded.
Silence fell between them. Only the trickling of the walls and the stream from between the witch’s dense thighs could be heard.
Then the witch laughed. She dropped her hand from her nipple and laughed loud and deep, like a clown. “Child, you know so little,” she said, rubbing tears from her eyes with patterned hands. Then she straightened, her face serious and her eyes filled with cruel hatred. “That Which Sins is the only true goddess. Your Jehova and your Christ, should they even exist, were mewling in the sand when That Which Sins rode high across these lands and all others. That is why I came here, to make you an offer, but I can see you would only reject our kindness.”
“What offer?” Penelope asked despite herself.
The woman smiled. “That Which Sins is not cruel. She does not want to torment you. All she wants is for people to exult themselves at the feet of pleasure, abase themselves for their own enjoyment… and hers. She wishes to extend that opportunity to you; join her willingly and you shall have joys and powers and pleasures that you could barely imagine.”
The witch reached out with her spare carved hand and her fingers danced a complex pattern. Then, like when she’d touched her shoulder, Penelope’s treacherous body went into full mutiny; every part of her crackled with that pleasure the Bacchanals inspired. She panted and groaned, unable to contain herself. Her secret place throbbed almost painfully. Every inch of her skin tingled as though tortured and fulfilled at the same time. The pleasure rose quickly, soaring to so great a height that she felt as though she were dangling at the edge of an explosion, holding herself together with the very tips of her fingernails.
But she was Penelope Chalmers. That was who she was. She would not let the witch win. There was another surge of pleasure, taking her to within a whisker of giving in, but she was able to pull it back and keep herself under control. The feeling halted then, at the very precipice of its climax, and she was released. Penelope fell to the floor, her body unbearably warm and sensitive again.
God help her but part of her wanted to experience whatever it was That Which Sins was driving her to. She looked up at the woman and almost asked her to let that feeling come to fruition. But that was the demon’s vile magic at work and it could not overcome her resolve. Instead she held her tongue, which was dry as bleached bone, and stared at her temptress with as much hatred as she could muster.
“All you have to do,” the woman said, an easy grin spreading across her wide face, “is accept That Which Sins as your mistress and all of this ends. Just kneel to her. That is all. Nothing more.”
“Never,” Penelope croaked. “Never, never, never, never, never, never, never!”
A flash of delight crossed the witch’s face. “I’d hoped you’d say that. It makes things much more… satisfying when you struggle.” Then she rolled her fingers across her white skin and tipped Penelope a lusty wink. “Believe me, I know.”
Penelope spat at her. She had no saliva but the gesture felt important.
The woman licked her lips. Her tongue was black and forked, like a snake’s. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Penelope.”
With that, she left. The door closed and locked behind her and Penelope was left in the increasing darkness with a body she couldn’t control and the knowledge that the sinful woman would be back. And next time she may indeed have her way with Penelope. In more ways than one…
