Chapter 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 rumoured 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.

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 practising 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 practises. 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.