Occult Justice 1

A warm August day in 1647; the dawn mist swirling as the sun’s warmth heralded the day that saw the just end of a perpetrator of systematic cruelty. Contented smiles radiated from the women, on seeing Matthew Hopkins buck his last as one of their number smothered his bound body with her ample arse; her sweaty cunt pressed hard to the tyrant’s face, her moans of ecstasy drowning out his last muffled cries as he sought death as earnestly as the life giving breath that was denied him, after two days of torture at his Manningtree home. The noose about the neck of his scrotum was pulled tight by one of the coven, to tease the last of the seed from his dribbling cock, ejected in the final penitent orgasm from the balls which had been worked hard since the vengeful witches had tricked their way into his home. His arrogance had not allowed him the foresight of suspicion when an older woman had brought a young wench to his door, expressing her fear that the buxom and nubile girl may be touched by the occult; his only thought was in fathering yet another bastard, as he cleansed her in his own conceited carnal fashion.

On completing what he thought was his seduction of the girl, he rode her with vigour, and slept heavily after spending his seed in the girl’s tight haven; even her enthusiasm in wrapping her limbs about him, her brazen enjoyment in the carnal act belying her supposed virginal innocence, did not scratch the walls of his boundless arrogance. He woke, bound and helpless, the older woman and several others standing naked by his bed, their sagging breasts and bulging womanly bellies ready to know the pleasure of his demise. His cries as the woman who had offered the gift of the wench climbed to the bed and straddled his face went unheeded as her large arse descended to know the delights of his captive face; his servants having no love for him, and having been paid well to keep their silence. Having accepted the coin, they were now bound to take their silence to the grave; any notion of confessing what they knew would result in their implication with the occult, their reward being the noose if lucky, death by burning at the stake more probable.

The witches were careful not to mark his body, subjecting him to bouts of strangulation with a soft wrap of fabric, bringing him close to death many times as he was taunted and tested in black candlelit rituals, the women having him know he would succumb before they left, extracting the names of the female ‘witch prickers’ who had been in his employ; particularly those he had seeded, their quest to rid the world of any trace of the tyrant who had been responsible for the deaths of more than 300 women, many of them witches, but others simply women who needed be silenced of their knowledge of his lewd acts. He was taken to death’s door many times with great pleasure by the witches, as he knelt naked and the wrap was pulled tight; one standing behind to support his head with his body pressed against her flesh, two either side with the ends of the wrap, unrelenting until he gave a name and then taking him on to unconsciousness regardless.

He knew the cunt and arsehole of each of the women over the two days, and was milked vigorously, sometimes made to masturbate as they taunted him with his inevitable fate, delighting in seeing his seed wasted and taking him close to his end beneath the folds of their flesh. They could not hang or burn him, lest their work would be discovered, but the promise of his fate and the guarantee that no mercy would be shown was eagerly demonstrated on the night of the first day. One of the names he gave was of a woman who resided nearby. Single and jealous of the rumored promiscuity enjoyed by certain women in the district, she had vented her spite by enrolling as a witch pricker under Hopkins; though no nubile beauty, she had also enjoyed servicing by her assumed Master, whose cock was roused by the enthusiasm she showed in digging at the flesh of the accused women, and with her partiality at seeing them burned or hanged.

She was dragged bound and gagged from her cottage at midnight, and taken to a copse behind Hopkins home, he led naked with the procession under cover of darkness to where a broad oak was selected, the writhing woman noosed, and hoisted high before the kneeling and trembling Hopkins. He was ordered to masturbate as the spiteful woman knew the cost of her sins, thrashed by the witches as she hanged; the stream of urine which rained from beneath her skirt bound at the ankles, heralded that the deed was complete. Hopkins now knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would follow her soul shortly, in whatever direction it went; they would not allow him to pass on what he had seen, and his emission of seed was plentiful as he began to lust for his own demise. The woman’s weighted corpse was thrown into the nearby River Stour; it did not float.

The witches quest was not complete when Hopkins spent his last, they held a dark ritual as they rejoiced at his death; with a long list of names at the feet of his justly punished corpse, they vowed to extinguish any trace of those akin to him or cursed by his abundance of seed, the crusade of the coven to be passed on through the centuries by their descendants. History states that Hopkins died from consumption; it may have been determined by a surgeon that he had found some difficulty breathing, his loyal servants oblivious to any other matter. The disappearance of the woman from the cottage remained a mystery for a while; unattached, she was soon forgotten. John Stearne remained safe and unassailable at his Bury-St-Edmunds farm, the many residents and hands there making any opportunity for the witches impossible, though they vowed to ensure his descendants were shown the same privilege as those of Hopkins.

xxxxx

Bathsheba Blackwood parked her car outside the antiques shop she owned, her graceful figure in a tight skirt attracting the glances of passing males as she bent to pick up a package from the rear seat and strode confidently up to the door, their leers met with studied contempt from a woman who viewed men as a commodity, a sub species that existed for her pleasure only.

She had been conditioned that way, taught to spite males from an early age, her mother and aunts had enjoyed having boys visit her only to be taunted and eventually reduced to tears. They had delighted in her progress, as in her teenage years she learned to dominate males sexually, weaker boys were selected by a strict aunt who as a schoolmistress, expertly selected boys who showed submissive traits. They were ordered to attend her home on the pretence of completing detention. Most accepted the cane willingly from the bitchy young Bathsheba with little pressure from her severe aunt, others were duped into baring their arses for the older woman, only to endure the pain and humiliation of being caned by by a girl their age while the older women watched her exact punishment with prim satisfaction. The tearful boys were then made to masturbate at her feet, an act to which most obliged equally willingly. Their silence was ensured by the shame they dreaded if it became known they had been caned by a girl, and many sought further detention which they were granted, Bathsheba caning them mercilessly with utter contempt.

The conditioning which Bathsheba took to readily and so naturally, was key to the dark and covert alternative lifestyle of the women, who were deeply involved in the occult; it was necessary that she, like her mother and female predecessors, would be strongly independent and with a contempt for all males. She, along with other girls, was ordained into the coven, and learned of the the history and unrelenting quest to bring all relatives of Hopkins and Stearne to justice. Males had been chosen as husbands to perpetuate the coven over the centuries, selected for their submissive qualities and allowed to seed the women, many disposed of after confirmation of pregnancy, others kept like pets for pleasure. Bathsheba had known the pleasure of many males but had never taken one for a husband, preferring to use them until her whims tired of them. She had also had become a prominent figure within the coven, and had enjoyed witnessing the dark justice served out to several males during her life, sentence carried out with ruthless pleasure at Burntwood Manor, an ancient house owned by her great aunt.

Bathsheba’s visit to her shop was inspired by a call from her assistant there, Agatha Moore, a tall middle-aged woman whose penchant for antiquated flowing skirts and expertise in genuine articles made her ideal for the role which she enjoyed; as with all Bathsheba’s associates, she was also a witch. Her breasts heaved as the brunette Bathsheba smiled with anticipation as she strode toward her past the array of grandfather clocks and bric-a-brac.

‘It may be nothing Sheba, but he showed such an interest in the engravings, keen to see anything depicting witchcraft.’ She nodded to the section of the wall where hung many pictures and prints from ancient woodcuts, depicting witches hanging, being burned, or tested in many ways; though the scenes were abhorrent to the women, they served to remind them of their unbending quest in life, and they also served to attract interest from those they sought to find. The greying haired Agatha’s eyes gave a wicked look of mischief from behind her horn rimmed glasses.

‘He excited me on asking if we had any depictions of witches practicing their art unmolested, scenes of occult situations; I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes went from the summary hangings and fixed on the hanged male tarot print, it made my cunt tingle so … I’m sure he wanted to ask if we had anything which showed witches in control. I’m not usually wrong; he may simply be submissive, my arousal had no doubt of that, but there is something more … much more, I’m sure. I said I’d check in the archived vault, if he’d like to come back in an hour or so.’ Bathsheba’s own arousal grew; Agatha was noted for her sixth sense and was rarely wrong when excited by it. She took the package she had brought from under her arm and undid it.

‘We’ll see how he reacts and how you feel when he views these.’ The two women smiled contentedly as they viewed the assortment of prints, some ancient woodcuts, some Victorian photographs; all depicted witches in their element, one an ancient photograph of the culmination of a black mass, the witches eyes masked to hide their identity, a sacrificed male hanging bound and naked but for a silken hood, above them in the centre of the picture. Agatha grinned at the final depiction; a black and white photo, obviously more recent but produced that way to have it blend in with the others. It was of a witch standing proudly in her flowing black silk gown, the contours of her breasts showing the excitement of her erect nipples in the silk, the hood and mask disguising the identity but not the pleased smile. Behind her was a black velvet clad bench, arched and angled to face a beam from which hung a noose. Agatha was delighted.

‘It’s you … being ordained at Burntwood!’ Bathsheba grinned wickedly.

‘We’ll see what his reaction is when he sees this one; will he think the noose is for me, or will he guess its true purpose? Either way, he’ll open up a little more, and we’ll see if he has any secrets that confirm your feelings.’

Thomas Arne had long had an interest in women of the occult, though knew nothing of their actual practices. The idea of societies led by all powerful females pandered to his submissive nature, a committed masochist to womanly spite, he was long divorced and single, giving up his seed to professional dominatrix on occasion. His wife had dominated him, and having secured half his wealth through marriage, cruelly cast him off for a male he had been made to watch cuckold him.

She had confirmed her decision, while the male and a third enslaved wretch watched him lick the seed from her cunt, informing him of his worthlessness having now been usurped by younger males. Having been made to lick the bull’s cock clean on several occasions, and doing so willingly on seeing him service his wife, she advised she’d maintain he was gay if he did not depart their union cleanly. Both she and he knew that his actions were driven wholly by the pleasure she gained from his deep submission; he did not contest the divorce, she claiming adultery on his part; a female friend having dominated him while she watched eagerly, adding an element of truth to her case.

He had never forgotten the strange and cruel ecstasy he had felt as he licked her folds clean of the usurper’s seed and was cut by the pleasure of her commanding decision. He often masturbated to the memory of that moment alone, and spent hard as he had a dominatrix taunt him with it when paying for the pleasure of whip and crop. He had sought similar domineering women since, but found that most contacts through agencies had been professional dommes. Thus the subject of witchcraft with its teasing possibility of female authority had become a pleasing side influence, especially on his also discovering that he may be related to the notorious ‘Witchfinder General’, one Matthew Hopkins. Though the tyrant’s actions were the absolute nemesis of his personal desires, he had been drawn to this town to seek public records; the antique shop providing a point of interesting relief between his trudging through dusty ledgers at the local records office.

The grey haired petit woman at the office had just the air of authority that excited him, but her studied and natural contempt for him made him loathe to divulge the full nature of his queries. She was now beginning to take a little more interest in him though, as on this latest visit, he reached for a ledger which confirmed the possibility of a pattern she knew all to well. She contained her excitement but now adopted a more approachable persona as she watched him thumb through the lines of long dead citizens, hoping upon hope that he’d pick out a name that would link him with the final ledger which was of equal interest to her. He took a deep breath as he noted the officious woman approach, but was eased by her now helpful air. She pursed her glossed lips.

‘Can I be of assistance? You seem to be struggling a little.’ Her dark tones had a certain seduction within them, which pleased but made him panic a little inside; the confidence in her voice complementing the officious character and making his balls tingle.

‘Why thanks … I’m so close, I’ve been tracing my heritage back, I’m stuck with a name.’ He felt her eyes wander over him rather than the book as she prepared to prompt him, a well known list of names locked permanently in her head which would provide a direct link with another in a ledger she was all too familiar with.

‘ … and that name is?’ Arne detected an impatience in her voice, and the command of her tone made his cock pulse, the plain woman becoming more attractive to his weakness by the moment.

‘Foulkes … Edmund Foulkes.’ Her sigh was audible, as she tried to contain her inner excitement at name she was more than aware of, her cunt now tingling as her eyes tried hard to disguise any emotion as she stared at the bemused male, her fingers flicking to the next page.

‘You’ll find it’s spelt ‘Ffoulkes’ … the double f a common practice in those days.’ Her heart pounded as his eyes showed the pleasure of finding it there. He motioned to tap the details into the archive computer to locate the final ledger he sought, which would contain the confirmation of his bloodline connection to the name he sought, and was astounded as the stern woman walked to the bookcases and pulled a ledger she was more than familiar with from it, before he could enter the information. He watched the prim woman strut back with the ledger, puzzled by the strange enthusiasm she now offered, but innocently assuming that it was just her dutiful knowledge of record location that drove her. She knew exactly what name he sought, Edmund Ffoulkes noted as the illegitimate son of one Eliza Ffoulkes; one of many bastards fathered by a certain gentleman whose position of arrogance kept him above what laws existed in the seventeenth century.

Her breasts heaved as she ran her manicured finger down the page to Eliza Ffoulkes … then across the line which showed her connection through her son to one Matthew Hopkins. Arne’s quiet satisfaction as he thanked her was eclipsed by that felt by the woman, but she needed to be sure.

‘Matthew Hopkins still holds certain interests in these parts; I take it you’re aware of his history … are you a you a Foulkes perhaps?’ He thought nothing of disclosing who he was, warming to the headmistress like manner expressed by the woman, which appealed to his submissive desires.

‘No, my name is Arne, Thomas Arne; a great grandfather of mine was Nathaniel Foulkes, the last connection to me to bare that name, albeit with the one f.’ She made a mental note of his name and his great grandfather’s before taking his leave.

‘Well Mr Arne, it has been a pleasure in assisting you, perhaps our paths will cross again in the future.’ The comment left him further intrigued as he watched her petite womanly shape strut back to the reception desk, apparently now oblivious to his existence. She was ever aware of his presence though, watching as he took pictures with his phone of the last two ledgers to complete the set. He placed them back and walked past the desk to the exit, giving a goodbye, and receiving no more than a dismissive nonchalant nod from the woman. As soon as he was gone, she was up and watching unseen through the window, noting the registration of his car before returning to the ledgers and working back to confirm facts.

She worked through quickly, seeing the connection to the male he mentioned, and accessing her national records data through the computer, linked his lineage to one Thomas Arne; there was no doubt. Edmund Ffoulkes has escaped the vengeance of the coven when his mother had left the parish and lived under an assumed name, returning to her origins some years later, having married and taken another name; the illiteracy of most and inaccessibility to public records until recent years keeping this line of the wayward spawn of Hopkins safe, until now.

Arne returned to the antiques shop, and entered it with a little more confidence than he had earlier, the confirmation of his bloodline leaving him sexually charged, making him feel that he now had a duty to seek out those women who still indulged in the black arts, and fantasized about offering himself up for discipline at their hands; that was of course, if they were vaguely aware of Hopkins and of his acts from three and a half centuries before. He had no idea of the prize that he was, and that he would realize domination far beyond his submissive desires. Agatha swept down to meet him, her feminine shape somehow emphasized all the more by the long flowing dress that shrouded it, startling him a little as she gripped his hand with welcoming enthusiasm.

‘I’m so glad you’ve back, I have some more articles to show you, and if you don’t mind, the shop’s proprietor is here too. You’ll come with me.’ A slight hesitancy returned at first, but he felt compelled by the soft command she had over him, and he was relieved but further aroused to see the owner was female, sat cross-legged and looking pleasingly strict and confident at an ornate table. Bathsheba’s eyes studied him as he was led to her; her clitoris swelling as she immediately sensed he was a submissive, a factor no weaker male could hide from the keen perception of her domineering experiences. He looked at the stunningly attractive brunette, a superbly shaped woman in her forties, looking supreme in her jacket and matching tight skirt; she was way out of his league, he could forget her, but would enjoy her brief company.

Both women smiled in a way that made him feel uneasy but pleasingly vulnerable, the atmosphere changing along with Agatha’s attitude, taking on a look of mischief as she sauntered back to the front of the shop, turning the sign to ‘closed’ and pulling a blind down before returning to have him sit between her and Bathsheba, who introduced herself, taking the opportunity to squeeze his hand and impose herself on him.

‘I’m Bathsheba Blackwood, this is my shop … and you are?’ She maintained her grip on his hand as he answered, enjoying his nervousness.

‘Thomas, Thomas Arne … I’m pleased to meet you.’ She released her grip slowly, her eyes letting him know that he was to be scrutinized.

Agatha edged the first of the pictures toward him.

‘As you can see, we found some more pictures and prints on the theme that you asked about… ‘ His face showed a little pleasure as he studied the woodcut of a witch preparing a potion, finely detailed but all very ordinary. Bathsheba was keen to have him open up.

‘What is it that interests you about the occult, have you ever met a witch?’ He blushed a little, her question making him feeling as though he had no right to have an interest without having been acquainted with with one.

‘Errr … no, I just have this … this interest … In the ways of these women, I’d love to meet some of course.’ Agatha put her hand over her mouth to hide her smirk as Bathsheba pushed the Victorian photograph over to him, a curt smile on her face.

‘Would you like to meet witches like these?’ The two saw the excited expression on his face, and his mouth gape as he reddened further, on seeing the contented smiles of the many darkly clad witches, satisfied with their work, which hung hooded and naked from the bough of a tree behind them. His cock swelled to an erection at the wonderment of how the male had been brought to his end by the witches, and his anus tingled with equal wonder at how the women had acquired what was obviously a photographic record of a genuine lynching. He could not lie.

‘Yes … I would … would like to meet witches like these.’ The two grinned, enjoying drawing the confession of his submissive desires from him, knowing he would soon admit his weakness openly, but Agatha knew there was something darker there. She left her chair and stood behind him, gently rubbing his shoulders and whispering softly.

‘You’d like to be at the mercy of women like that, wouldn’t you? The male there has lived what you dream of, and paid the price; that excites you doesn’t it?’ He trembled under her comforting but controlling touch, his eyes lifting to see the pleasure in Bathsheba’s eyes as she waited for him to humiliate himself. Her phone rang, and as she lifted it from her bag with the intention of turning it off, she saw the call was from Sadie Horton, the woman at the records office. She sneered at Arne and tutted to Agatha.

‘Sadie … best answer it, she may have a lead.’ She strutted down the shop, looking back at the male, anxious to enjoy taunting him.

‘Hi Sadie; what is it? You’re timing is impeccable, I have a ‘customer’.

‘I thought, I’d tell you now … couldn’t wait until the ceremony tonight … there was a male here just now, a direct relative of Hopkins… ‘ Bathsheba took a sharp intake of breath.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes … I helped him with the final search that linked him, and I’ve just run through the records, I got his car registration too; we can find out where he lives … oh … his name is Arne … Thomas Arne.’ Bathsheba fell silent for a moment clutching the phone as she watched Agatha caress the male who had delivered himself up to them, like a sacrificial lamb. Her gape of disbelief quickly transformed to a wicked smile, he was theirs already.

‘Thank you Sadie, you’ve just made my day. Prepare for a date at Burntwood House within a week … oh, I’ll pass the phone to Agatha; her ego will be fit to burst.’ She patted Agatha’s back and passed her the phone, taking over from her in gently confirming his desires would all be realized, her soft scent and calm but commanding tone keeping him mesmerized, feeling more owned by feminine control than he had ever felt when naked at the feet of one of the dommes he had paid for the services of.

‘You’ve come to right place, it must have been instinct.’ His cock boned as he felt the consuming enthusiasm from the woman he had not dreamed would have the merest interest in him. She slid the disguised picture of herself and the noose under his eyes, her sex moistening with increasing arousal at the growing lust to dominate him, and see him pay the price for his heritage.

‘Tell me what you think of her … you’d like to be on your knees … perhaps begging for that noose? I’m sure she’d be willing to oblige, after dominating you satisfactorily.’ Agatha sat and placed the phone on the table, also stunned into disbelief at the way he had offered himself up, but so pleased that her perception had been correct yet again. She watched as Bathsheba’s dominance teased the submission from him, ensuring he would be led by her to a final appointment at Burntwood House before the coven.

Arne’s cock swelled with submissive pleasure at engineering his own entrapment, unaware of just where it would take him but consumed by the obvious interest of a woman he could only have dreamed of being dominated by; he had known this feeling when procuring the services of a professional woman, he had no need to state his submissive desire, he gave off all the signals that told them he was at their mercy.

‘I … think she’s so … so powerfully feminine. I’d … love to be on my knees to her … begging anything she wished of me.’ Bathsheba grinned as she eased him from the chair.

‘On your knees! Look at her smile, then look at mine.’ Both women sneered victoriously as he eagerly dropped to his knees and confirmed what they already knew; he was now ready to know that his dreams had come true, but not where they would lead. Bathsheba put her hand about his throat, caressing it softly as he looked up, her other hand showing him the picture. His cock boned as the realization hit him. Her cunt tingled at the ease with which such a prize had offered itself up; she would thoroughly enjoy dominating him, gaining his cringing obedience with the promise of a lifetime of servitude, then crushing him completely as she led him to the surprise which she now lusted for.

He lapsed into the humiliating comfort of total submission on being exposed and made to kneel before her, his eyes now fixed on the picture as he yearned to be tormented and brought down to a level satisfying her, while dressed that way. His lust could not equal hers though; the pleasure she was already experiencing as her cunt swelled with arousal, wetting her panties, was oh so acute. She would have him secured immediately. Her grin turned to a contemptuous sneer.

‘Yes, you poor fool, we’re both witches, and you will find the practices and code of our coven most accommodating; I’m going to dominate you to satisfaction, then present you for their inspection when you’re ready to be shown.’ She pointed to her feet.

‘Kiss! Then beg to be dominated.’ He dropped to her shoes immediately without the slightest hesitation, his anus tingling with the delicious fear of her stern authority, as Agatha stepped closer to enjoy his humiliation; her pleasure at his cowering submission and what it would cost him, affording her the special excitement that these rare occasions brought.

‘Kiss mine too, then we’ll have you beg.’ His cock stood hard and aching as he dared look up after his lips had willingly pledged his submission to Bathsheba’s shoes, and was pointed with a curt smile to Agatha’s. She lifted her long flowing skirt slightly to allow the confirmation of his inferiority, and enjoyed the lush feeling of her dominant power over him as he affirmed his place below her. They allowed the worship of his lips for a few moments, then Bathsheba’s tingling cunt urged her urgency.

‘Beg!’ He lifted his head to receive the contented sneers of the two, his balls already fit to burst as he knelt before two women who had enslaved him within minutes, and would now enjoy hearing the humiliating affirmation of his weakness to their superiority.

‘I beg you … please dominate me.’ The words were simplistic enough, but the defeated tone and sincerity was received by spitefully contemptuous laughter from both women as they enjoyed his humiliation, his face reddening with shame of his admission, his cock pulsing with submissive pleasure at the taunting laughter. Bathsheba looked to Agatha, both women now more than ready to begin his torment.

‘Well Agatha, I suppose we’d better forego the possibility of any sales here this afternoon.’ She grinned as both returned their attentions to the cowering male. Bathsheba addressed him with curtness.

‘Your car keys.’ He retrieved them from his pocket and she took them, passing them to Agatha.

‘Bring it round to the back entrance, then we’ll take him back to my house to have him know our pleasure.’ Arne trembled with anticipation as he watched Agatha’s arse bustle in the long dress while she strutted away to obtain his transport to domination, knowing her cunt would be wet and slipping between her thighs below it. Bathsheba smiled as she stood over him and waited her return.

‘Well Thomas Arne, you’ve realized your dreams today. When we get you back, the whip will have you tell us all about yourself, and just why you have an interest in our ways.’

THE END OF CHAPTER ONE