Feature Writer: SusanJillParker


Published: 15.10.2013

Story Codes: Erotic Horror

Synopsis: Witch gets what she wanted, being burned alive at the stake


Witch Hunt, Burned at the Stake 1

Flora Radisson gets just what she wants when the townsfolk burn her at the stake.

“Flora Radisson, under the laws of the Commonwealth of Salem Massachusetts, on this day of our Lord in 1692, I find you guilty of witchery, witchcraft, wizardly, sorcery, and conjuring,” said the Honorable Judge Robert Hall. “Do you have anything to say for yourself before I pass sentence.”

Even though he mindlessly asked her if she had anything to say before he sentenced her to die, he wasn’t paying her any attention. Too busy looking through the papers he had before him, he seemed ready to ignore whatever she had to say.

“I’m not guilty of witchery, witchcraft, wizardly, sorcery, and conjuring. If I’m guilty of anything, I’m guilty of being a redheaded woman. If I’m guilty of anything, I’m guilty of being beautiful and sexy and all those bitches are the real witches,” she said looking at and pointing to the wives and the girlfriends of the men who convicted her. They are the ones who are jealous of me because their men want me more than they want them,” said Flora.

“Who are you calling bitches and witches, you wicked witch? I’ll scratch out your eyes” said one of women witnessing the Salem witch trial.

“Quiet! Quiet in the courtroom,” said the judge banging his gavel.

“I have proof that I’m not a witch but just a beautiful, sexy redhead,” said Flora in her defense.

“Proof? A witch who has proof that she’s not a witch? I never heard of such a thing,” said the judge laughing. “The only proof that we have is that you are a witch,” said the judge. As if he was suddenly made of liquid and his form was moving across his lofty position, the judge looked down to her from across his bench. “What proof do you have that you’re not a witch?”

Mesmerizing him with her good looks, she looked at the judge as if she was putting a spell on him.

“Look at me. Just look at me. I’m beautiful and I’m sexy. What witch have you ever seen who looks like me? All the witches you’ve already burned were old and ugly. Am I right? Do I look old and ugly to you?”

She struck a pose while turning to all who accused her and convicted her of being a witch.

“She’s a witch. She’s a witch alright. That’s why she’s so beautiful and so sexy,” said a woman.

“No one can look like her without being a witch,” said another woman.

“Stone the witch to death,” said someone else.

“Order in the court! Quiet,” said the Judge banging his gavel. “Under the powers given me by the citizens of this commonwealth, after being found guilty of being a witch, I hereby condemn you, Flora Radisson, to death,” said the Honorable Judge Robert Hall banging his gavel for quiet. “Quiet in my court! Quiet,” said the judge when everyone started talking and cheering all at once.

“Good! She got a death sentence,” said someone.

“That’s making an example of her for all the other witches,” said someone else. “If you practice witchcraft in our community, you die.”

“Hang the bitch,” said someone else.

“Burn the witch,” said another. “Burn her!”

“Strip her naked and burn her,” said someone else.

“Burn her, burn her, burn her,” chanted the crowd of people gathered in the courtroom and that erupted outside the courthouse when someone told them the verdict. “Burn her, burn her, burn her,” carried the chant outside to the crowd watching while waiting for the verdict and the sentence.

“Quiet in the courtroom. Quiet! Quiet!” The judge banged his gavel again and again. “Anyone not quiet in my courtroom will be removed from my court and put in the stockade after being charged with disorderly conduct and contempt of court,” said the judge pointing his gavel at those in the courtroom who disrupted the proceedings.

Looking while watching everyone as if trying to memorize all of their faces, Flora waited for the court to become quiet before having her say and speaking her words.

“I’ll be back,” said Flora smiling as if she was imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger when he starred in Terminator. She pointed her index finger at the Judge, a finger that was as stiffly defiant as her resolve to return to life. “You can’t kill me.”

As if she was the Devil and he was Archangel Michael, the Judge looked at her with venom in his eyes.

“No you won’t be back and yes I can kill you,” said the Judge firing back and pointing the narrow end of his gavel at her.

“Burn her, burn her, burn her,” chanted the crowd. “Strip her naked and burn her.”

“If you think that I won’t be back and that you can kill me,” said Flora with smiling with contempt for him and for his court, “then why even bother burning me?”

She pushed back her long, curly, flaming orange red hair with a practiced hand. As if her hair predicted her future, her brilliant orange, red hair curled in the way that flames of a fire curled when consuming anything and everything in its path.

“Quiet! Quiet in my court. Quiet,” said the judge banging his gavel.

“If you’re sentencing me to death, then surely, you believe that I’m a witch,” she said with a victorious smile while looking around at those jurors who found her resoundingly and unanimously guilty. “If you believe that I’m a witch, then you must know that I’ll be back, because not even fire can kill me,” she said with logic. “Being that you can’t kill me and being that I can return to life to harm you all, if you believe that I’m a witch, then you must let me go to leave here and to allow me to live elsewhere.”

Alas her logic fell on deaf ears. Already found guilty, she was just awaiting sentencing to die.

“Contrary Miss Radisson. Indeed you are a witch and so found guilty of being a witch by your peers and by this court. Instead of being hung by the neck for practicing witchery, witchcraft, wizardly, sorcery, and conjuring, you’ll be burned at the stake on Friday, June the 13th of the year or our Lord, 1692. Once dead, it’s this court’s desire to make sure that you remain dead,” he said with a self-righteous smile. “Seize her!”

Immediately the two guards that already stood beside her, grabbed her beneath each of her arms. Flora pulled back at the guards when they pulled her. With one guard pulling one way against the other guard who pulled the other way, not moving an inch, she remained in place before the judge.

“Ha! You can burn me but you can’t kill me,” she yelled while struggling against the strength of the two, burly guards. “The numbers. It’s all in the numbers three, two, one. Three, two, one,” she said again.

“Burn her,” erupted the crowd. “Burn her,” chanted to crowd to all that she said.

Flora glanced over at her black cat who was perched on the outside window ledge to watch the proceedings. She smiled at her cat and winked at him before refocusing her attention back to the judge.

“I’ll be back on Friday, September 13, 2013 to take out my revenge on someone from your unsuspecting family.”

“2013? Seriously? 2013? Why wait so long?” The judge laughed loud enough to make everyone in the courtroom laugh. “Quiet! Quiet in my courtroom.”

“Shakespeare wrote it best when he wrote and I quote, Revenge is a dish best served cold,” she cackled. “Unlike the kangaroo court held here, revenge is a kind of wild justice. Revenge triumphs over all, even death, especially death,” she said. “And I’ll take my revenge on your family when I return from the dead.”

The judge looked from her to look at his courtroom filled with people.

“Revenge? Who cares about your revenge? I’ll be long dead by then and you will too. No doubt, you’ll be dead before I will,” he said with a shrug while laughing. “We’ll all be long dead by then,” he said with another loud laugh.

“Three, two, one,” she said holding up her right hand to count off with her fingers. “Three, two one,” she said holding up her left hand to count off with her fingers.

She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest as if she was praying, meditating, or performing some sort of witchcraft spell. As if she was saying a spell or conjuring up the Devil, she mumbled some unintelligible words as if speaking in tongues or in a foreign language that only she understood.

“Remove this condemned witch from my courtroom and remand her in custody until we can make a big enough fire to burn this bitch. And someone go outside and kill her damn cat,” said the judge looking at the cat sitting on the window ledge while staring at her master and purring.

Suddenly, as if she was a stone statue, an immovable object remaining steadfast against two men twice her size, with her eyes still closed, she stiffened herself, along with her resolve, to say her words uninterrupted to Judge Robert Hall before being forced to leave his courtroom.

“Come on witch, let’s go,” said one guard pulling at her but she wasn’t moving an inch.

“Let’s be off with you now,” said the other guard tugging at her but she wasn’t budging a muscle. “We don’t want to bruise you before the fire burns you,” said the guard with a laugh.

“Three, two, one. Three, two, one,” she said again this time counting the numbers off with both hands raised high. “I curse you. I curse you. I curse you,” she said breaking the hold the guards had on her arms. She lifted her head and popped open her big, blue eyes to stare at the judge. As if her eyes were two pools of deep, azure water and he was drowning in them, he stared back at her with fright. As if her finger was her magic wand, she pointed her finger at the judge. “In three hundred and twenty-one years, I’ll whisper my words in his ear. For me, your kin will fall. His name is Robert Hall.”

“Remove her from my courtroom,” said the Judge. “Get her out of here.”


Flora Radisson remained in the stockade while watching the townsfolk gathering enough wood to burn her. The judge ordered two, armed guards posted around the clock to protect her from people stoning her and/or doing all sorts of viciously evil things to her. He wanted her unhurt for the fire. Then, on the warm morning of Friday, June 13, 1692, after collecting enough fire wood and arranging it all in a pile, the women of Salem collected her.

With no one wanting her in their house, they brought her to a small barn just outside of town. Surrounding her to give her some privacy from the leering men who stood outside staring at her through the splits in the wood, they undressed her and bathe her before redressing her in clean clothes. Given no place to go to the bathroom, she had been standing in stocks for nearly a week while peeing and shitting herself. Once washed and dressed to look presentable before the court, without delay and without giving her another podium for her to state her curse, she was taken outside and escorted to the stake.

“Flora Radisson as so found guilty by a jury of your peers for being a witch and for practicing witchcraft, wizardry, sorcery, and conjuring, as so ordered by the honorable Judge Robert Hall, you will be burned alive at the stake.”

Now cleaned and dressed, she was turned over to those townsfolk men who were chosen to strip her naked. In a frenzy, the men tore off all of her clothes while touching her and feeling her where no men were allowed to touch and feel women who weren’t their wives or mistresses. Good Christen men that suddenly became perversely perverted animals, their violent sexual assault of her person was far greater than any crime she was accused of committing. With first her breasts exposed and then her arse and pussy, instead of cowering to hide her nudity with her arms and/or hands, she stood defiant and unashamed with her arms by her sides. Showing no fear and not combatting her rapists, seemingly she stood proud to not only be deemed a witch but also to be burned as one.

A time of morals, modesty, religion, God, and puritan values, it was such a seldom sight to see a naked woman, especially one so beautiful and sexy, to be standing in public so brazen. Defiant against the wills of the lustful men who stripped her naked while sexually assaulting her on her execution day, as if wishing them all harm, she looked at them all one by one. A time before women shaved their armpits, their pussies, and their legs, with a light coat of amber fur covering her, she was still a sexy sight to behold.

A woman in a man’s world, a woman accused, tried, and convicted of being a witch for merely being a redheaded beauty, all eyes were upon her as if she was a stripper being stripped on stage. In the way that they tore of her clothes and stripped her naked, indeed she was giving them a striptease show for their viewing pleasure. Waiting for her sorcery to conjure up something to save her, a fire breathing dragon or a two headed monster, the crowd watched while waiting for her to do something, anything to prove that she was indeed a witch. If anything, by standing there so immodestly and immoral naked, defiant against the laws of the time and against the Salem Witch Trials, if she proved anything at all, she seemingly disproved that she was a witch.

Obviously waiting for her to perform some magic miracle of witchery or wizardry to either beguile her captors and/or to free herself from the binds that bound her, she disappointed them with her inaction to perform and her inability to escape. Too proud and too confident of her own bad self, someone like Flora would never beg for mercy. Too disrespectful of puritan values, especially when she knew that the men were all hypocritical pigs who lusted over her and disrespected her with leering looks and lewd comments, someone like Flora would never beg for her life.

Having been down this road so very many times before and already resigned to being burnt at the stake, someone like Flora would never appear weak and scream from the flames of the fire melting her skin. Someone like Flora would never apologize for being her strong self and for being the witch that she is. More turned off by her brilliant, orange red hair and more put off because she was a sexy, vocal woman, the men and women of the period didn’t appreciate a woman who felt free to give her opinion. Yet, putting her faith in her witchcraft than in her friends and neighbors, she knew she’d be saved from death at the very last second.


It wasn’t enough for the men to strip her naked, not part of the deal, especially when they were the ones accusing her of lewd and lascivious behavior with the men of her community. Even though she was innocent of her accused witchery, witchcraft, wizardry, sorcery, and conjuring, and even though not one man stepped forward to bear witness against her for having sex with him or with anyone, she was still found guilty of being a witch. Even though they were all good, kind Christian men who attended church every week, acting in the way of starving animals that were hungry for sex instead of for food, they were all determined to have their wicked, sexual way with her naked body. Unlike their homely, short, obese, and unkempt wives, perhaps because she was so beautiful, tall, shapely, and busty, they all wanted her. Committing more of a crime than they ever accused her of committing, the crowd that watched the public, sexual display suddenly all turned into co-conspirators and voyeurs in encouraging the men to defile her beautiful, naked body.

God help her because no one else could or would. If only the Devil would step forward to save her from being burned, she’d show them all that she was a witch capable of conjuring up the Devil. Only Flora didn’t need God to save her and she didn’t have to conjure up the Devil to prove that she was a witch. She wanted to be burned at the stake to leave this time and place behind for another and better time and place in the future.

“Fuck her! Fuck the witch! Fuck the bitch! Force her to suck you! Make her blow you! Ram your cock up her ass!”

As if praying in church, they cheered their hatred for Flora by yelling out their lust for the men to have sex with her. What wife would encourage her husband to have sex with a woman, especially back then? What neighbor would want to watch someone having sex with a woman they accused of being a witch, especially back then? Seemingly, because she was a witch, it was okay for them to put their morals and modesty aside while stripping Flora naked and raping her.

How dare they do that to her? How dare they violate her in such a forceful way? How dare they murder her before their God, their laws, their fellow men, and their country?

Surely, if she was a witch, and indeed she was a witch, she had the tools to fight them and to save herself from being burned alive. Surely, if she was a witch, and indeed she was a witch, she knew the spells to recite to escape. Surely, if she was a witch, she’d never be so complacently submissive to allow these stupid, backward people of her community to strip her naked and force her to have sex with them. Casting doubt among her neighbors, friends, and relatives, maybe she wasn’t a witch after all, oh but she was. Maybe she was just a beautiful, intelligent woman with red hair that the wives of the men who accused her, convicted her, and raped her were all jealous of and no longer wanted to have her around to tempt their husbands with infidelity. Convoluted, it didn’t seem to matter that the men who they were raping her now were adulterers and all the other men who lusted over her naked body were co-conspirators of rape too by watching without coming to her aid to stop the sexual brutality.

Not satisfied with just stripping her naked, inflamed and encouraged by the wild, cheering crowd, the three men so chosen felt her and touched her where no men should ever touch and feel a woman who was naked in public in 1692. Even if she was so deemed, so tried, and so convicted of being a witch, she didn’t deserve such a brutal, sexual assault. Naked before her friends, before her relatives, before her neighbors, before the mad mob, and before Judge Robert Hall, she still stood defiant while the three men had their wicked way with her naked body.

What were they thinking to go against all they believed to so use, abuse, and murder a woman by burning her alive at the stake? In a time of Christen charity and good will to all men and women, how dare they? How dare they? How dare they?

As if she was a tavern wench instead of a condemned witch, being that she was so insolent in his court and even dared to curse his future relative, he could have stopped the men from raping her. Where no person of this community would ever darken the doors of a strip club, if there was such a thing back then, they all crowded around to watch the men having their wicked, sexual way with her now. Oh the inhumanity of what Flora needed to endure and survive for her to leave this place was unprecedented in the history of modern men and women.

Judge Robert Hall could have prevented the men from forcing her to suck them and from sodomizing her. Yet, not interceding on her behalf, the judge stood by and watched the three men have their wicked, sexual way with her naked body. Forcing her to her knees, one by one, as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, to voice her defiance, and to curse them and the crowd, they filled her mouth with their cocks.

Humping her mouth and fucking her face, they forced her to suck them and the crowd cheered when the three men ejaculated in her mouth, all over her face, and all over her long, beautiful, red hair. Back before the Japanese raped innocent women on the subway and gave them a cum bath, the colonists of Salem gave Flora a real, Pilgrim cum bath. Then, bending her over, without even taking the time to lubricate her, they fucked her in her pussy and up her ass hard like the yelping and howling dog they deemed she was before they tied her naked, dripping with their cum body to the stake. Yet, undeterred from what she was about to do, having been down this road many times before throughout the centuries, everything they did to her only gave her the strength that she needed to work her black magic.

She’ll be back. Yes, indeed she’ll return and when she returns, she’d seek her revenge. Woe is the one she so cursed. Woe is he for he will receive her wrath as an unfairly accused and persecuted women tried as a witch and raped before being burned at the stake. How dare they do this to her? How dare they? She was just a beautiful, intelligent woman living alone who happened to have red hair. With all of them declaring themselves as Christen people, are they insane to so sexually used and abuse her?

They are the evil ones and the crazy ones and not her. Different than all the other women in their small puritan community, the women were all jealous of her because she was so beautiful and so sexy. Not blaming their men for leering at her while lusting over her, for her to so beguile their men to stare and to leer at her, she must be a witch. Definitely, the only explanation to explain the perversely perverted behavior of their men was to deem her a witch.


Not happy here, hating this place, this time, and these people as much as they hated her, if only they knew that being burned at the stake was her only way to leave here to go someone else, what would they say? What would they think? As if the flames were a time machine that launched her forward in time and space, able to pick her year, month, and even down to the day with her potions and spells, she knew there were better times for her in the future. The numbers, all in the numbers, the numbers along with what she saw in her crystal ball, told her that she’d find love and happiness in the future on September 13, 2013.

As if the flames could launch her forward, she’s lived in the dark ages before but this place, Salem Massachusetts, stuck here with the Pilgrims was a fate worse than death. Only, if she went that far enough ahead in the future, she inherently knew that the people living at that time would be more civilized and wouldn’t be burning perceived witches at the stake. Should she be as unhappy as she is now and should she want to leave there too, the only way she could leave there was for her to set fire to herself.

“Burn the witch! Burn her! Burn the bitch!”

Yes, burn me, burn me, burn me, she chanted to herself with them. If only they knew that she wanted to and needed to be burnt at the stake, wouldn’t they be surprised. She couldn’t wait for the flames to ignite her as if she was a boaster rocket launched toward the future. A miracle that was her life, she couldn’t wait to see what she would find in the future after leaving this life behind.

Out of control, consumed by anger and hatred for someone who was merely different from them, the crowd wanted her eradicated from their small, closed minded community. After receiving the verdict and the judge’s blessing with a death sentence, what better way to kill her as if she’s a weed, than to burn her? Free from the guilt of killing her, the God fearing and church going members of her community were only following the judge’s orders to burn her. Perceiving her as a witch instead of a woman, in the eyes of their God, they did nothing wrong.

A time when men saw not much more of a woman than an ankle, she stood before them all naked with her tits, her ass, and her pussy totally exposed. With her red pussy as bushy as if it was already on fire and with her hair as wild as her blue eyes, she showed no embarrassment, shame, or remorse to be so nakedly exposed in public. Offering no resistance, they tied her to the stake and stepped back to light the fire. She lifted her head up to the sky and her lips moved as if she was talking to someone, issuing another curse, praying to God, or summoning the Devil.

As if watching a big screen TV or a live performance of a rock band with pyrotechnics, with the flames burning closer and licking at her feet, there were no cries of pain or screams for mercy from Flora. With just cheers from the crowd before her audience fell silent, there was only the crackling sound of the fire burning all of that wood, so much wood wasted just to burn her. Then, just before the flames reached her, all anyone could hear over the noise of the flames was what she so brazenly and chilling said in court. She now repeated again for everyone to hear.

“Three, two, one. Three, two, one. I curse you. I curse you. I curse you. In three hundred and twenty-one years,” she yelled opening her blue eyes wide as if they were twin lasers to stare at Judge Robert Hall. “I’ll whisper my words in his ear. For me, your kin will fall. His name is Robert Hall,” she yelled over the noise of flames and the booing and harassment of the crowd that threw whatever they could find at her.

“The witch is dead! The witch is dead,” sung the crowd and later stolen to use in the Wizard of Oz. “Ding, dong, the witch is dead!”

Seemingly waiting for the right moment, as if jumping through a window or launching itself in an open porthole to another time, space, and universe, her cat jumped into the flaming fire at the last second too. Then, in a burst of flames and a big ball of fire, when the fire reached the excess kerosene soaked in the wood around her feet, she was surrounded by fire. With the flames consuming her and with her and her cat engulfed in a flash of a brilliant, blue flame that shot up a thousand yards into the sky as if it were a booster rocket, she was gone in a flash.

Gone, gone, gone, she was gone. Totally disappearing as if she was never there, never burnt at the stake, and never even existed, Flora Radisson disappeared from the Earth in a flash of fire. Gone conceivably forever or for three hundred and twenty-one years, as she foretold but who would know, nonetheless for the time being, she was living there no more.

After the fire was out, accustomed to finding enough evidence of the one ordered burned at the stake for their family and friends to bury in a grave so that her immortal soul would ascend to Heaven, there was nothing left of her to find. Usually not much more than some charred bones, along with her skull, it was puzzling that there’d just be ashes and smoldering coals. As if the bonfire was a crematorium, did the fire burn so hot to leave nothing but ashes behind? If the fire did burn that hot, why did the fire burn so hot? Was it because she was really a witch? As if she was the resultant end of a magic trick and as if she was an illusionist instead of a witch, she was gone. As if there was no one and nothing burned at the stake but wood, the townsfolk and all of the relatives of Judge Robert Hall now and in the future were disconcerted by what happened there that day and by her witchy curse.


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