DISCLAIMER: The following is fiction. The content of the story is not representative of the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote any unlawful activity, such as is depicted in the story. By continuing to read this work, you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose only of fantasy. All the characters in this story are adults. They may play different ages for the fictional character that they are depicting, but they remain at all times adults. All Rights Reserved © 2025 LITTLESALLY666.
STORY CODES: Transgender, Young Ones, WS, Sacrilegious, Witchcraft, Occult, Magic, Supernatural, Shapeshifting, Implied Snuff.
CREATED: 02.12.2025 (V13)
ART: G. Nic
AUTHOR’S NOTE: More recently, I watched a movie called “The Last Duel” — what interested me in this was the story sequencing. The story involved three key characters and unfolded in three parts — it was essentially the same story but told from the perspective of each of the protagonists — for the audience to judge which was true or false. I loved the idea of delving deeper into the narrative from each point of view. In Misha 2 (Misha’s Story), I wanted to explore how Misha saw things, what she felt, and how she prioritized the elements of her story. Now, in Misha 3 … it’s Kikimora’s turn.
Misha 3 (Kikimora’s Story)
SYNOPSIS OF “MISHA 3”
So, you’ve heard some rumors from my Misha nd her boyfriend, Cole. But that’s not the true story. You need to hear it from me, Kikimora. They say many things about sex witches, the coven, the worship of demons. They claim that they know about my lust spells, dark incantations, and evil curses. Some outrageous accusation of abuse, rape, even sexual cannibalism — well, let me set the record straight!
MISHA — CHAPTER SEVEN — (2,508 WORDS)
There is no easy place to begin my tale. They called me Kikimora. I was named after a legendary creature, a female spirit in Slavic mythology. The Kikkimora could be either a “bad” or a “good” spirit, depending on her influences. She could be seen in many forms, as a youthful girl, pretty and alluring, but also a depraved demon that was neither female nor male, but both.
The truth was that I never knew my real name. I never knew my parents. My two sisters and I grew up in the orphanage of the Fântâna de Lumină (Monastery of the Spring of Light). The name was an oxymoron. This was no place of light. It was a dark, evil, and desolate place, located deep within the Apuseni Mountains, west of Cluj-Napoca, near the village of Valea Stinsă (The Faded Valley). The town was scarcely populated, accessible only by a single winding forest road that disappeared into the dense mountain forest.
I was very young and naive, but quickly learned that this place had been a bastion of clandestine initiations — the “Nunta din Umbra” (the Wedding of Shadows), and worship of the god of the witches, “the Baphomet” — for what must have been hundreds of years. It dated back to the monastery’s foundation in the seventeenth century. The accused nuns had fled there for fear of the ferocious witch-huntresses who sought to burn them at the stake.
This dark and secret place had remained untouched until after the fall of communism, when Romania’s borders became more accessible. Maybe it had been the suspicious villagers of Valea Stinsă, but wild rumours began to emerge from the Fântâna de Lumină.
My earliest memories of the orphanage were ones of extreme sexual abuse. They seemed explicitly linked to goat-headed figures, inverted crosses, and sigils resembling medieval demonology texts. There was frequently the sound of ominous chanting echoing through the monastery walls, accompanied by demonic drumming, while horned women, wearing animal masks, danced naked before the archaic symbol of sexual duality. This was a goat-headed figure that was seated upon a throne, crowned in the black flame, with one hand raised, and one lowered. The perverted nuns claimed the Baphomet to be “the Angel before the Fall”.
From my earliest experiences, the Baphomet became god. Occult and black magick became the way. And filth and sexual perversion became our only desires.
The monasteries’ nuns were not only cruel and wicked — they had long abandoned any worship of their Abrahamic god — instead, they all followed the darkest of ways of Occult sex, witchcraft, black magick, and devil worship. All of us (orphans), were fair game for their sexually exploitative ways and practices. I knew of the sisters who deliberately became pregnant, only to offer the unborn to the sex demons they worshipped. Many of the witches would use the toes, fingers, feet, legs, and even the entire arms of their captives to satisfy their itchy, perverted, hungry cunts, fucking themselves on their limbs during the depraved orgies.
From the day of our first arrival, my two sisters and I were forced to perform all kinds of incestuous acts together, for the explicit entertainment of these wayward nuns. However, as time passed, we found these activities not so unpleasant. In fact, I greatly enjoyed our perverted sexuality. And with our seemingly willing compliance, we were granted greater freedoms over the less fortunate ones. The unfortunate ones were those who struggled, resisted, or fought back. Many never survived their ordeal. Many became merely offerings to the god of these witches, while we seemed to prevail.
I began to realize that there was never going to be anyone coming to rescue us. Even if the witch-huntress came, they would kill us all, as they left no witnesses. And over time, my sisters and I began to become truly empowered by our captors. No longer victims. We were taught and instructed in their strange ways. We were initiated into their evil rituals, possibly to become the next generation of sexual abusers. It was in this bizarre circumstance that I found an interest in creativity, where the evil ones engaged in painting and sculpting, of what I could only describe as pornographic cult art. They encouraged me through masturbation to embrace this vocation.
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There came a time when the monastery orphanage had run dry of funds. So, on my fifteenth birthday, I was reluctantly sold away to a wealthy Russian trader as his child-bride. I didn’t want to leave my twisted sisters, but there was no choice in the matter. I was told that my sacrifice would be remembered in their dark prayers. And that one day I would return to the fold. I could only hope. So, I left monastery life to live away in a foreign land.
My new husband wasn’t a cruel or mean man. In fact, he was very generous. But the sex was not pleasurable, and I quickly learned to fake orgasm, to appease his delicate ego. He would try to fuck me once a week. But he also travelled frequently. During these odd sexual encounters, I was very aware of my clitoris, for when it became excited, it would protrude from my cunt in a way that it appeared more like a male penis. I had not been the only one that had been endowed with such a satanic gift — in fact, the dark magick of the coven seemed to make all of us develop such an appendage.
So, whilst I was with my husband, I would lie on my stomach to obscure his view (hiding my deformity), as he tried to fuck me from behind. It wasn’t difficult. And he never demanded anything more from me than to lie still until he was done. Of course, while he was away, I was free to play and pleasure my clit-cock, stroking it, to the memories of my days and nights, with the witches of “The Spring of Light”.
I couldn’t deny that I missed the evil things that I did together with my sisters and the depraved witches. I missed exploiting the other younger orphans. And realized how much I had actually enjoyed their suffering. The insane sound of crying and pain. Where their rape, abuse, and misery brought me the greatest of joys.
They had also instilled in me an unhealthy interest in all manner of sexual perversions that needed an outlet. My husband’s absence gave me the time, and the means, to secretly delve into these interests through my devotional art — to masturbate while creating that which came to express my proclivities and profoundly twisted tastes.
As I grew a little older, he wanted me to bear him a son. To continue his dynasty. At first, I pretended to be infertile. I used the little I knew of magic to trick him into allowing me to avoid getting pregnant. Until one day, it dawned on me that if I gave him what he wanted, I could get whatever I wanted, too. It seemed transactional, but the pregnancy and the birth of my young Misha became a highly sexual thing. Yes, I thought to myself, his son would become my lover. My perverted, young lover — incestuous, unholy, and would deny me nothing. Misha would be used as a gift from Satan.
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My unsuspecting husband knew nothing of my early sexual awakening and the years of indulgence in unspeakable and unholy acts with my sisters at the hands of the evil nuns of the orphanage. I was to become a mistress of deception, faking fear of intimacy, the pretence of fake virginity, and of obedience to his boring sexual demands.
There had been a thrill of being fucked when fully pregnant, riding up and down upon his pathetic, fuck-stick, whilst full of fetus, willing his semen to baptise my perverted child to be, who would learn to worship my unholiness. To perform this act, I always faced towards his feet, so that I could freely stroke my huge clit-cock without his knowledge. He was just lost in the pleasure of my oily cunt, as I thrust up and down.
A baby boy. But soon he would become her. From that moment on, “she” was her pronoun. My effeminate Misha — my enchanted, pretty, faggot child. And with my dull-witted husband away, nothing interrupted my mind’s corruptive desires. I weaved my incestuous, sex magick. The spells of old would serve me well.
Breastfeeding became such a depraved joy. My milk-filled breasts, which were never very large, felt a dull ache without young Misha’s mouth around them. In the sanctitude of my secret temple, before my life-size statue of the Baphomet that I had cast in bronze, we would both sit, naked and excited. I would take my time, savoring the pain of needing to be drained of mother’s satanic milk — firstly laying young, naked Misha against me, rubbing my cunt juices over my bullet-hard nipples, before finally attaching her eager sucking lips upon them. The feeling was exquisite. And as she began to suck, I would play with Misha’s genitals, rubbing even more of my evil secretions over her delicate parts, arousing her unnaturally, to enhance the corruption of her immature mind, body, and soul.
Of course, this only multiplied my own private perverted delirium. My secretive love of corruption, abuse, and wickedness. I would need to fuck my gaping, greasy cunt-hole with my husband’s crucifix (which had been a gift from his late mother).
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As Misha got a little older, I loved to make her dance for me. No longer with puppy-fat, she was so young, yet so wicked. Her corruption was delicious to experience. Dressed to distress, in her tiny open cup bra, thigh-high stockings, and open-toed stilettos. Upon her child-like face, she wore a demonic mask with horns at each corner. It covered just her upper face — only partially hiding the dark arches of her sculptured eyebrows and exotically-piercing eyes — enhanced with lots of gothic make-up, and glossy black lipstick.
Her cock was hard and hairless. A small black cock-ring gripped tightly around the base of her cock and balls. How I loved her exotic movements. So inappropriate for her age. My tiny whore with pointed breasts. A ballad for the Baphomet. Thrusting back and forth, against her black, talon-like fingers, as she eagerly stroked herself for me.
“Masturbate for me! Masturbate for your she-devil!”
Her hips and fingers moved in perfect timing to the drums of sin. I watched and rubbed myself to that same insane rhythm. I licked my black lips, focusing on her loose foreskin, as it rolled back and forth, from the purple tip, wet with amber dew. Yes, I had taken time to teach her how to urinate, even through masturbation, to drench herself in the Sacrament of Satan. It would bring me the first of many multiple orgasms before the climax of my incestuous ritual.
“Piss, darling! Piss-dance for me! Piss for Mommy! Make a delicious yellow fountain! Drink your piss for the Devil!” I urged, “Yes! Yes! Drink the Devil’s sacrament! Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”
My sisters sent me secretive packages, as I sent them videos of my escapades with young Misha. These contained an assortment of illicit, pornographic delights that I used to corrupt Misha’s impressionable mind. I wanted her to see what she would become and the unholy acts that she would perform for me, my sisters, and for Satan.
Misha seemed to be enthralled by the images of shebois with tiny breasts. Shemales. Pretty ladyboys. Faggot cross-dressers. Tranny whores with effeminate features and huge, hard cocks — all spurting fountains of delicious piss and semen.
My favorites, on the other hand, consisted of far more taboo subjects. My sisters knew my evil and twisted taste for corruption, abuse, and suffering. My heart would beat so fast at the sight of such depravity — especially young mothers (not so unlike myself) using their own sons and daughters as merely masturbatory devices, forcing their delicate limbs into their open, wet cunts, groaning loudly as they ground themselves against their own kin, to satisfy their twisted passions. Just to know that I was not alone in such evil thoughts and desires.
Many of these titles were non-consensual. Not just sex, but these were about rape and, of course, about the worship of sexual demons. They clearly showed that the young victims were usually abducted, half-starved, bound naked, and humiliated before being subjected to an endless array of horrendous sexual abuses. Their eventual fate was never documented, but in these depraved publications, I found great satanic joy.
They made me long for the hell of home, for the dark rituals of the witch’s sisterhood — all dedicated to the eater-of-children, the Lamia, the demon with both breasts and phallus, a greedy, malevolent god/goddess that demanded human sacrifices!
xxxxx
I had kept Misha for myself. My husband had no idea of the things we did together. He scoffed at Misha’s effeminate ways as he reluctantly put up with my artistic pursuits. His frequent absenteeism was the perfect excuse for everything he found disagreeable. And whenever something seemed out of sorts, an enchantment would bring him to a mindless state of just wanting to take me to our marital bed (under which I had placed secret charms that enabled his blindness to my real agenda).
But things changed when Misha turned eleven. No longer home-schooled, she began her education at the local secondary school. It was a delicate time. I didn’t want anything to impact our secretive relationship, but still, Misha would need to grow up. The world was a cruel and unforgiving place. But fortified with my dark magick, I was confident that she would become even more salacious.
It was soon after her first encounters with other schoolboys that Misha came back with some very exciting news. Already, Misha had been busy seducing a young boy from her science class. His name was Cole. He sounded absolutely perfect. I’d taught her the rudimentary skill of lust spells, but even without this, he’d seemed to have a strong attraction to Misha. Misha hadn’t left it to chance and wasted no time in weaving her sexual magick over the boy. As she described her seduction, I simply couldn’t help myself. I masturbated furiously to her description of the events that happened during the physical education classes at the local swimming pool.
She’d told me how eager he was. How susceptible Cole was to her naughty suggestions. How easy to manipulate him into sexual situations — that would rapidly become depraved and very perverse. I imagined the two of them sucking each other’s cocks and playing with their urine. I imagined bringing them both to my bed — my wet temple bed. The one soaked in piss, semen, and my evil secretions. I could feel the evil joy welling upwards inside of me. The joy of another young mouth wrapped around my clit-cock, sucking me as I lay soaked in their delicious pee.
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MISHA — CHAPTER EIGHT — (2,052 WORDS)
So, it was planned. The sleepover would bring Misha’s new school friend, Cole, to us. And by us, I meant to me. Misha had mentioned that his parents were the holy, godly type. The ones that go to church every Sunday, dressed in the best clothes, and pray to their Abrahamic god, to protect their only son from predators, like us. I could only imagine their horror to find him, praying to the devil’s phallus, whilst my clit-cock was rammed deep inside his filthy bowels.
”He sounds perfect! You’ve done well. He’ll soon become our personal toilet!” I groaned, fingering my oily cunt-hole at such a nasty thought, “Such a delicious, new toy. Satan be praised!”
I knew it would take a little time. You cannot rush such a thing. My thought was to allow things to blossom between Misha and Cole before I would intervene. Before, using this boy in ways that were unholy and unnatural. I had it in my mind to ask Cole to pose for one of my special paintings. I would be subtle at first. A nude painting, of course. Maybe Misha could be naked too, just to make him feel more comfortable? Maybe they could pose together? Maybe an embrace? Maybe it could be a picture of sodomy? Misha seemed to be really into my love of corruption. Maybe my influence was such that Cole would be unable to resist these unnatural pleasures of the flesh.
So there they were, in the living room. It was just before dinner time. I guess they were both hungry for something other than food. Dressed only in their little flannel pyjamas bottoms. I could clearly see my naughty Misha, gripping her new lover from behind. She was frotting her hard pencil-cock against Cole’s rear, grinding against him, with her hand down the front of his flimsy pyjama-bottoms. It was obvious from Cole’s quiet groaning that Misha was rubbing his young boy-cock. They both faced away from the door, at my painting of a naked demon that hung above the mantelpiece. I watched their inelegant movements with bated breath, both of them, lost in the throes of sissy desire. A perfect picture of young faggot lust. My hungry cunt was dripping wet just watching them. It felt itchy and needed to be finger-fucked.
It reminded me of the days back in the orphanage. Where all the boys and girls would be required to perform such tasks, daily, for the perverted nuns. They were never our carers. They were all sex demons. And we were their prey. My sisters and I were more eager than most to participate in their perverted games. Their spell infected me. Soon, I became as predatory as they, enjoying the abuse of others, and even the sexual torture of my fellow orphans, to appease the demons of my loins, and to the praise of my evil corrupters.
“Come on, you two, dinner is ready,” I said, grinning broadly, “Cole, my dear, do you like my paintings?” I casually asked.
His face was red and flushed. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I pretended that I hadn’t seen their wayward behavior (and the wet patch in the front of his pyjama bottoms) — though my nature wanted to draw him to his knees, before my aching cunt, to bury his face into the dank wetness of my juices, and force him to suck my aching clit-cock as it stuck out upright from its fleshy hood.
”Cole, it was so nice to meet you,” I announced, my hand delicately stroked his burning face, “I hope you come (cum) here … very often. I know that Misha is very fond of you. You must make yourself at home with us. Be part of our little (incestuous) family. Maybe you will pose for one of my paintings, one day soon?” I paused, “But for now, unfortunately, I have to go out for a while. I won’t be back until late.”
Their evening meal was laid out for them.
”Give me a kiss, dear,” I said, turning to my young Misha.
Misha kissed me directly on the lips. It wasn’t tender. It was a long, drawn-out kiss. Not of a mother and child, but of two incestuous lovers. I wanted to see Cole’s reaction. It was to be the first of many little signs of what was yet to come. Then, it was Cole’s turn. He looked awkward but still open. He kissed me, too. He was hesitant but didn’t resist. A positive sign. Though I wanted to hold the back of his head and thrust my tongue into the back of his mouth, I played nice.
“Do you think you can both … entertain yourselves … while I am away?”
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The plan was simple. I would pretend to leave. Then double back. Enter from the rear of the property. It was dark outside, so I wouldn’t be seen. Then, through my many spy holes, I would be able to watch, observe, and video their sexual activities — as I masturbated. My sisters, back at the old orphanage, would enjoy seeing their young niece being fucked by her young friend. I was going to enjoy this.
”Your Mother looks so young,” I heard Cole say.
Yes, I did look very young. He was looking at me as well as Misha.
”She’s … very … you know, pretty.”
Of course I was. I was beautiful. Sexy. Horny. I was every young boy’s fantasy! So, Cole was developing a crush on me. I could use this. Mmmm, I thought. Perfect!
“What … What …” he stuttered, “… Does your father think … of her paintings and stuff?”
My fucking dumb husband could think whatever he wants, or rather, he’ll think whatever I want him to think!
In the light of Misha’s bedroom, I could clearly see young Cole standing at the window. It was already getting dark outside. As he stood there, I saw Misha step behind him, pressing herself against him, rubbing that hard little cock of hers against his tight anus, whilst plunging his hands down the front of his pyjama bottoms. Mmmmm. Masturbation. The prayers to the devil. My clit-cock was wet with my vaginal secretions. I gripped it and rubbed it in time with Misha’s fingers rubbing Cole’s small boy-cock.
”Your cock is so suckable,” I heard Misha say.
“Agghhhhh,” he groaned in response.
”Let’s get naked,” Misha said.
In no time, they were completely nude, rolling around like two virgin lovers — their young, hairless bodies entwined, rubbing their hard little, pencil-dicks together. Their white flesh together, shimmering with a slight perspiration. What a glorious sight to behold. I could almost taste them, as I breathed in the aroma of their naked, unwashed bodies. How I missed the sounds of slapping flesh and the crying of young ones as we abused them in the orphanage. My slimy fingers were working feverishly into my hungry cunt, as I watched through my spy-hole, urging the corruptive power of their illicit liaison.
Then, Misha pushed Cole onto his back, rolled over him, and started to kiss his thin neck. Misha kissed his tiny, brown nipples (sucking them like a lesbian lover), then she went down on his twitching boy-cock.
”Suck my cock, as I suck yours,” said my little Misha (she was such a horny, little slut), “Let’s take the Devil’s communion. I want to drink your piss, Cole. And I want you to drink mine!”
Fucking hot little cock-suckers. Piss-drinking little harlots! Yes! Yes! Drink the devil’s sacrament! They lay together, wriggling in a tight sixty-nine. Each was sucking the other’s cock, as they began to pee into each other’s mouths. The slight aroma of urine caught my senses. It made me thirsty for violent, wet sex.
I think it was just too much for young Cole. I saw his pale body stiffen and then begin to jerk as he suddenly reached orgasm — his first? How delightful, I thought. I wished it had been my mouth wrapped around his young, boy-cum spurting cock. I hungered for the taste of boy sperm. My body jerked as I watched. My female ejaculate spurted over my frigging hand.
Honestly, I felt a pang of jealousy. But, I knew it was only a matter of time before I would ride his delightful little face, pissing and cumming down his throat. Satan, be praised!
xxxxx
It was to be the first of several sleepovers. Cole seemed more than comfortable with us. With me. With our touchy, feely ways. With the strange occult-like setting. With Misha’s demands for ever-increasingly bizarre sex. I had planned to join their twosome and make it a threesome. Everything was planned for the long weekend.
It was a Thursday night. Misha and I were alone together. I was feeling particularly horny. The demons demanded some incestuous sex. Both Misha and I were naked together in the living room. The fire burned brightly and warmed our flesh. Misha’s cock was pumping my hungry cunt, as I stroked my clit-cock. We kissed passionately.
Suddenly, without warning, Misha’s father appeared.
There was nowhere to hide. We were caught out. He wasn’t supposed to return for another week, but there he was, standing in the doorway looking at us, dumbfounded at the scene that confronted him. I was unsure how long he’d been standing there, but he was stinking of booze as he stumbled forward. It was too late to hide. He grabbed hold of me. He was strong, but in his inebriated state, I managed to push him back. That’s when he slapped my face violently, knocking me back onto the ground. Fuck, that hurt. I rolled over. He swung again, but this time he missed. He tried to kick Misha, but his lack of coordination made him lose his balance.
”Idi na kher! Idi na kher, ublyudok! Ostav’ yego v pokoye! Ubiraysya!” I screamed.
My anger had gotten the better of me, and I grabbed the closest thing I could get my hands on. It just happened to be a heavy vase. I hit him over the head with it. He stumbled backwards, faltered, fell, and lay unconscious on the ground. What a fuck up! Was he dead? No. Just knocked out.
Still stunned from the speed at which things had happened, and still naked, I tried to collect my thoughts.
”We have to leave,” I said, “We have to leave, right now!”
xxxxx
I made a hurried, long-distance call to my sisters to plead for their help.
We had no choice but to leave, and the monastery was my first choice. We would both be safe there. Misha and I grabbed a few essentials and belongings, and I drove us to the train station. I had, for years, prepared for such a moment and had a stash of money hidden away. My “fuck-off” money, as I called it. We were just in time to catch the last train to Cluj. Misha, poor thing, just looked confused. I guess it was completely understandable.
Though it was completely unplanned, I thought that maybe it was for the best? To be back with our own kind again. The depraved nuns would know what to do.
The journey would be long and tiring. It had been over a decade since I was in the illicit company of my twin sisters, Mamuna and Morena. I knew they would be excited to see me again. We’d talked on a few occasions about sharing my beautiful, Misha. They’d loved the explicit videos that I had sent them over the years, especially the newest ones with Misha and her school buddy, Cole. Their perverted needs were exactly like mine. The devil-worshipping nuns could provide anything we’d want. I felt an excitement that I hadn’t felt for years. This must be the workings of the devil. At least, it would be with his dark blessing.
Misha could flourish there. I could see it now. She could become the sissy-faggot-witch that I’d prayed to Satan for her to become. My mind raced ahead of me. There had always been something special, with my sisters, about our shared sexuality. I knew my sisters would be eager to explore the possibilities with my lovely, little sissy, Misha. Despite all that had occured, I became wet thinking about it.
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MISHA — CHAPTER NINE — (2,372 WORDS)
The years passed quickly in the relative sanctuary of our wayward monastery.
Of course, it was a sanctuary for us, and a hell for our prey. My dark enchantment had kept me youthful. Beautiful. Untouched by the years but darkened by my lustful thirst for evil-doing. I didn’t look a day older than the day we left my husband behind. But now, delicious, Misha, had grown up.
I think Misha had turned twenty when we’d gotten word that her father had died. It didn’t surprise me. He’d been a heavy smoker and drinker. Those things have a way of catching up to you. And with a few poison spells and cures, I had hoped he’d be dead sooner than later. Someone had described it as a mysterious illness. That sounded familiar. I didn’t give it much thought, as my life in the monastery had brought many new changes.
Things had changed. Between my sisters and me, we’d become the backbone of the evil monastery, with the two dozen or so nuns looking up to us as their coven leaders. Their spiritual guides to lead them down the twisted path. The traditions of our dark craft, of black magick, had been well observed. The chain of abuse and the sexual nature of the wayward orphanage were all still intact.
Communism had come and gone, but the villagers still kept their distance. The fortress-like monastery was no holy place, and they all knew it. They feared us. In Slavic folklore, evil witches are often referred to as “Verma,” meaning cannibalistic witch hags. This ancient term was associated with our harmful, sexual, and demonic powers, distinguishing us from those who supposedly used “white magic” as a gift. Others used terms like “veshtica” or “veshterka,” which carried a dual meaning of skilled, wise women, but also malevolent sorceresses.
There were some wild rumours that we’d heard being spread. Rumours of fancy, about supernatural, witchcraft, orgies, and even ritual murder. However, this didn’t seem to stop the steady flow of new orphans arriving on our doorstep, and even underage pregnant girls who seemed to have nowhere else to go. The truth was never really known. Though these rumours helped to keep trespassers away, they may have also brought some unwanted attention.
The witch-huntress was omnipresent and had always been a constant threat to our continued existence. In the past, her kind had hunted us, like vermin, and had burned hundreds at the stake. I, for one, had no intention of being their prey.
Misha had wanted to return to the land of her father. To seek out her boy, Cole, and to bring him to us. Maybe it was something of the Oursboros. The serpent that eats its own tail. Just as I had taught Misha how to suck her own cock. Such a delicious sight. Though she never knew it, he would be her sacrifice to Satan. The closing of the loop. But before we used him, I felt a slight spike of jealousy. I would turn him. Make him worship me. Yes, there was an evil joy in making him all mine before his sacrifice.
So, I had arranged that it would be me who would meet him as he arrived at the station. He’d expected Misha, his long-lost love, to be there. How momentarily disappointed he would be. We wouldn’t return to the monastery immediately. No, I had arranged for a room at the local inn. They know me there. They knew I was “Verma”. They knew better than to interfere with my business. I could smell their fear. I would make Misha cum inside me. I wanted to be filled with an unnaturally large volume of her precious cum, before my encounter with young Cole.
Why did I feel a need to do this? Because I hate love. Unless it is the love of Kikimora. I am a jealous bitch. You may call me narcissistic, but I cannot help myself when it comes to sexual adoration. I must be worshipped. My wickedness must be glorified! My pretence of being caring was always a thin veneer for the truth, that all I ever cared about was my own selfish pleasures.
Cole immediately recognized me.
I especially wore an expensive, full-length, Russian sable fur coat. Killing animals to make such delightful luxuries had always given me a kinky spur. The rarer the better. I was completely naked beneath it. The silky, dense texture against my skin kept my clit-cock constantly hard and wet.
“You look hungry?” I asked him.
He nodded in agreement.
“Mmmmm … My cunt is full of Misha’s semen. You come with me to the inn. I sit on your face. You eat it out and suck my horn. I cum on your sweet, young face.”
It probably wasn’t exactly what he had expected to hear. And he wouldn’t exactly be sure what I meant by a horn, either.
”Misha. She … preparing,” I explained, “Tomorrow night. Full moon. She will become a sorceress. A sex witch like her mother. Have a ritual orgy. Drink piss. We make a sacrifice. Eat baby. Castration. And much fucking. You will join us?”
Again, Cole just nodded. He had no idea of his role in this awful ritual.
xxxxx
I took Cole by the arm, and we walked the short distance to the inn. The innkeeper knew the drill. He brought us to my favorite room and left without a word. Maybe he muttered something, but he never dared to look me in the eye. Inside, the fireplace was already lit, as was my passion for seduction. Yes, this boy would be unable to resist me. I was beautiful, young in my appearance, and everything he could desire. My lust spell would just seal the deal.
At first, I just stood silhouetted against the gaping mouth of the roaring fireplace. The fire’s orange flames licked my profile, like the flames of evil lust inside my cunt. Misha had already spun many stories about me, I was sure. The witch-goddess. The succubus. The cannibal. The eater-of-children. The shapeshifter. Yes, I was all of them, and more.
Cole’s enchantment was obvious. He was positively salivating. I seductively allowed my fur coat to slip from my delicate shoulders to reveal my nakedness beneath. Exposing my tender, white flesh. Provocative. His eyes sparked at the sight of my girlie body, tiny points for breasts, completely hairless mons, and pubescence. My androgyne seemed to appeal beyond anything he’d seen before. This was just too easy. The boy was besotted. Putty in my evil, twisted, little fingers.
“Come …” I crooned, “Get naked. Kneel before me. Tell me that tonight you will be mine. My itchy cunt dribbles with my kin’s cum. Lick me. Pleasure me. Worship me …”
His body seemed to be on autopilot. His clothes were gone. His cock was stiff and dribbling with precum. His young body was already mine for the taking.
“That’s it. Come closer,” I crooned, “Eat me! Adore me! For I am the Mole of the Devil …”
His eyes had glazed over with passion for me. I pressed my clit-cock into his mouth as Misha’s semen began to dribble from my cunt. His mouth wrapped around my torrid flesh. My hands held the back of his head, guided him to suckle upon the devil’s horn. As I fucked his face, my clit-cock throbbed in his eager mouth. Enlarging with my enchantment. Filling his mouth and bumping against the back of his throat. Yes! I arched my back. I loved his feeling of control. I felt his tongue lapping the underside of my sensitive organ. I was cumming. My pleasure! Yes, my pleasure! More! More! That was all I thought of. You may say it’s selfish. Autosexuality. The love of oneself. But, as I saw it, he was nothing more than a servant to my sexual ego.
”Aurwwwwhhh,” he gagged as I bumped his throat harder.
As my first orgasm receded, I pushed him down, onto his back, in front of the roaring fireplace. The heat made both our naked bodies sweat. The putrid smell of my wet cunt was delicious. I crawled over him. Ignoring his leaking cock. Until my cunt was across his open mouth. Now, I squeezed my pelvic floor, expelling a mixture of Misha’s creamy load and my copious cunt juices over his upturned face. Yes, I thought, it would be the last time you’d ever taste her.
xxxxx
I had heard a rumour that my last husband was not dead. That he was, in fact, alive and together with the witch huntress seeking revenge on me, my sisters, and our coven. These stories involving the witch huntress were not to be taken too lightly.
However, to strengthen my coven, it was time for Misha to take her vows and become the sorceress that she needed to be. This was also no small undertaking. I had groomed her from birth to be the first witch with a true phallus — not clitoral — but the metamorphosis of female and male endowment, together. To intertwine our powers of the baphometic succubus, Lamia (the eater-of-children). She was the incestuous marriage of demon-frenzied nightmares.
The ritual was about to begin. It was a full moon. The night of nights. Everything was going according to my grand plan. Soon, my Misha would take her rightful place at my side. There would be no turning back.
I had gathered all the sisterhood together for the “Nunta din Umbra”. Held in the darkest and deepest of our secret lairs. A place that I reserved for our most profane of rituals. My evil coven was impatient for their perverse orgy to begin. Hungry for orphan flesh. The inner chamber was filled with the sickly-sweet scent of smoky hallucinogens. My devil nuns all wore horned masks — each a delightfully demonic creature — and naked from the waist up, with only the tiniest of cloth drapes to conceal their mutated loins. Soon, our mouths, cunts, and asses would be filled with our unnatural cocks — a pumping, fucking, orgy of complete depravity.
”Salvete Lamia. Salvete Lamia. Salvete Lamia,” the witches droned.
I watched Misha’s oiled body, naked from the waist up, the death necklace huge around her delicate neck. Her escort, of two young, horny faggot acolytes, made their way towards me as I sat upon my demon throne. In the reddish light, their flimsy gowns did little to hide their obvious sexual arousal. And in my presence, all were incredibly horny and deviantly charged. It was like a vile volcano about to explode.
The three of them slowly walked forward, their hands bound by loose ribbons to Misha’s.
Come to me. Come! For I am the child-eating monster. I am Verma. The living Baphomet. The evil mother. I was dressed in a goat-like headdress with my pointed breasts exposed. Beneath my gown, my clit-cock pulsed with a need to impale. Beneath the hollow throne lay a young mouth, lapping at my filthy anus. Pleasure coursed through me. Either side of my throne stood my twin sisters, Morena and Mamuna. They were dressed like the serpents that entwined the erect phallus of the Baphomet. Their translucent bodystockings glistened with sexual dew as they both gyrated in serpentine movements.
“Ali slovesno prisežeš, da se boš predal Satanu? Ali se zavežeš zlu in hudobiji? Ali s svojo dušo častiš čarovniškega boga Bafometa?” I asked.
[Do you solemnly swear to surrender to Satan? Do you pledge yourself to evil and wickedness? Do you worship the witch god Baphomet with your soul?]
Misha answered with a simple, “Yes.”
My serpentine sisters slithered forward as Misha knelt before me. They sibilated with sexual venom, their split tongues protruding from their twisted mouths. Their bodies undulated inhumanly and hissed like snakes, as they untied the bindings and tore away the vestments of Misha’s acolytes. Now, both of the young boys were completely naked before my assembly of hungry devil nuns. And in turn, the young ones began to undress Misha. Yes, this was the reenactment of original sin. The ultimate disobedience, as told in Genesis. Temptation. The forbidden fruit that would make us all gods and goddesses!
“Salvete Lamia! Salvete Lamia! Salvete Lamia!” screamed the devil nuns as they all masturbated furiously.
”Naj se ritual posilstva začne! Slavimo največji greh! Sestre postanejo bratje, da bi lahko prodrli v njihova črevesja!” I growled through my goat-like mask.
[Let the rape ritual begin! Let us celebrate the greatest sin! Sisters, become brothers, so we can penetrate their guts!]
Misha and her young faggots were already eagerly beating their cock. She looked up at me. I was no longer her mother. I was the Baba Yaba. The devil incarnate. The witch goddess. The sheer fabric that had been covering my groin fell away, exposing my demonic transformation. I stood up on my fur-covered legs that ended in cloven hooves. My witches could see that I was no longer human. I was their beast. The devil. Between my open thighs rose my enormous, throbbing phallus.
“Salvete Lamia!”
My incestuous serpents hissed as they danced around young Misha, as she frotted against her faggot boys. Her audience of devil nuns seemed impassioned by her unscripted performance. As if it were the catalyst, my devil nuns removed their modest coverings, revealing their own mysterious phallic transformation. No longer female or male, but the devil’s configuration of both.
At my signal, my sisters coiled themselves around the faggot boys, dragging them away — leaving Misha alone before me — before the Mole of the Devil!
Then, at that very moment, from the darkness of the ceiling immediately above me, the heavy inverted crucifix was lowered. The sight of her young lover, Cole, crucified upside-down, came into view. She hadn’t seen that one coming. He hung helplessly. The blood rushed to his head. Misha’s eyes narrowed with evil joy in the dull reddish light. Despite his painful bondage, his cock was still fully erect, from my dark sexual enchantment. I would cut that cock off soon, and we would eat it together … me, the Mole of the Devil, and Misha, my demon daughter!
”Are you ready to become what you have been destined to be?” I asked.
xxxxx
THE END? OR SHALL WE CONTINUE?
xxxxx
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