Chapter 3 The Pornographic Pyramid
Rough Annie snapped her fingers, and the seven-sided room rotated and wrenched and then clicked into place again. In its new configuration, the moss-covered wall was the floor, and Bruce was helpless on his back and dizzy to boot. Candlelight flickered on the glass bottles and jars that now lined the cellar’s arched ceiling in defiance of gravity. The surfaces reflected thousands of handsome woodsmen, and each was a literary lamb ensnared in a metaphorical thicket. They reflected twice as many crones, wheeling around him like ravenous birds of prey.
Bruce felt his broomstick stir as the women chanted unintelligible words over him. What little Babylonian he had learned in grimoire school was long gone, but the insinuations of their sinuous syllables sent shivers along his spine. His rod was rigid, now, and aching with desire.
The old women sped along their circumgyration, circling him like a volt of hungry vultures. Their work dresses and aprons transformed into silver-gray shifts. Their wild, long hair flew behind them as their feet lifted off the ground. The balmy breeze created by their overhead passage parted the poisoned heart vines, exposing the woodsman’s naked body to the keen eyes of the crones.
Their wheeling flight teased his skin in an alternating weather system of gentle caresses and rough buffets that caused Bruce to moan involuntarily. Goose bumps spread across his arms and legs. He longed for a more corporeal encounter with the wizened women, but they evaded his reach. One would dart from the swirling mist of perfume they’d stirred up and nip at him or nuzzle against his neck, but she would be long gone before he could grab her. His cock ached with anticipation. How long would it be before they straddled him like she-devils on a shaman’s staff. How long would they make him wait?
His bag of tricks buzzed with a pleasurable pain that was intensified by the apprehension he felt in the pit of his stomach. He’d heard of an ogre taken out by a single thirty-year orgasm. Here he was—only just out of retirement—set to experience two thousand year orgasms simultaneously. Bruce was full of fear and trembling, but he was alive for the moment, more alive than he’d been in decades.
The sisters were spinning and wheeling like seagulls caught in a maelstrom over his head. They cackled in gleeful anticipation of their conquest. Bruce felt like a feast before it’s been eaten, a sacred bull awaiting his own sacrifice to two fickle, feckless goddesses. If it proved to be the end of him, he could think of worse ways to go.
Following their circular course made him light-headed, so he didn’t notice when the ultrasupple vines that had sympathetically swaddled his arms and legs were replaced with iron shackles that bit into his skin. He was aroused to the fact by a faint buzz that vibrated through the trappings, titillating his skin with a tingling thrum.
This was Rough Annie’s contraption for harnessing orgasmic energy, then. If he strained his neck, Bruce could make out a tangle of wires coming out of each cuff. A metal crown snapped around his cranium with a curt click, preventing his further inspection. He was completely ensnared. He couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the crones’ clutches, even if he wanted to.
The gravity of his situation dawned on him, and the dungeon took on a more ominous atmosphere. The glass bottles and jars amplified the wild crowing of the witches until it became deafening thunder. Their gossamer, silver-gray gowns obliterated Bruce’s ability to see more than a few inches from his face. He was afraid, yet his enchanted broomstick stiffened and lengthened and strained in the direction of the swooping crones.
“Ladies?” he whispered.
The crones materialized from the fog of desire they’d stirred up. They lit on him like large birds and occupied his torso, back to back. Rough Annie grinned down at him from her perch on his chest. Her slate gray hair crashed in waves over her diaphanous seafoam gown, and her eyes gleamed with lascivious mischief.
His rod reared up, and Gentle Ginger, seated on his stomach, clasped the stiff shaft in her soft hands and massaged it. She ran a teasing fingertip along his quivering vein. Bruce groaned as lightning traveled from Ginger’s skillful hands and coursed through his cock, shooting out electrical tendrils that lit up his brain and incapacitated him with an itch that only the two witches could scratch. Ginger squeezed and kneaded his pulsing pistolette, and the woodsman concluded correctly that pastry knows more pleasure when it’s being sculpted by a chef pâtissier than most humans experience in a lifetime.
Rough Annie nibbled at the tender flesh of his captive arms and inhaled the musky warmth rising from his chest. Chills traveled down Bruce’s sides when her breath teased his earlobe and her teeth pressed into the ticklish skin of his neck. He moaned helplessly and concluded correctly that pastry knows more pleasure when being devoured by a ravenous hag than most mortals will ever experience while sneaking an illicit pastry.
Ginger cupped his glutted truffles and slipped a ring around his rigid lightning rod. Though he couldn’t see the contraption, he could feel wire filaments extending from it. They brushed against his pelvis and and grazed the skin of his hip. A tingle followed the flow of the wires upward towards the cock ring. He felt a pulsating hum, and his staff stiffened and convulsed still more. A white jolt bolted from the spot where the metal wrapped around his sensitive shaft and rolled over his body, so that he jerked and spasmed with his barely contained orgasm.
Rough Annie’s gauzy gown drifted away revealing a body that seemed too fragile to contain her entire tempestuous temperament. He was overcome with a desire to draw her to him, to hold her in the palm of his cupped hands, but he couldn’t. He was prone. Entirely at her mercy. In the palm of her hand.
He knew it was for the best. He could, technically, hold a scorpion in the palm of his hand, but it would be ill advised. Likewise, Annie’s apparent fragility was only another glamour. The old crone should never be underestimated.
Annie leaned over him so that her swaying breasts grazed either side of his face. He explored the valley between them with the tip of his tongue, following an amorous trajectory as she stole over him to move into position as one side of the pornographic pyramid. He traced her libidinous ley line as she passed over him like a storm cloud. He followed it along her sternum, over her soft belly, through the dewy moss of her axis mundi, to the little rune stone that marked her southern port.
Bruce teased the rosy rune stone with his tongue, tracing circles around it, gently flicking its tip before sinking his tongue between her seawalls. She was warm and wet and tasted like fine salt and evening air. A desperate yearning possessed him as he strained for more of the crone’s hidden elixir. His broomstick quivered, and the cock ring shivered in response. His broomstick grew and pulsed, and the cock ring squeezed and sizzled. The crone had created a positive feedback look of pleasure and pain.
He couldn’t see her, but he felt Ginger’s slick nether lips engulf his shaft. He bucked and strained with desire, but they had bound him well. Ginger was in charge, and she rode his broomstick with patient purpose. She maintained a slow, sensual stroke, sliding up and down his shuddering shaft and sighing with each descent. Occasionally, she varied her stride with a figure eight twist of her hips so that the tip of his stick stirred her inner cauldron, bringing her closer to her thousand year orgasm. She brought Bruce nearer and nearer the edge of his orgasm, too, but she allowed no liberation from his desire.
His lust for the two crones was reaching a critical mass. He struggled vainly against his bonds, aching for an immediate release from the inferno burning through him, but they paid him no mind. They rode Enchanted Broomstick Bruce with the cool indifference of witches who have waited too long to rush. He moaned and whimpered, begged and called out their names in supplication. He would gladly take total annihilation at the hands of the two witches if only they would let him cum.
The coven sisters joined their hands over their heads so that Rough Annie was stretched taut over Bruce like a sail. He was ravenous and aching with desire, and her honey elixir dripped down his chin as he plunged his tongue into her cunt. His shaft was slick and swollen to unimaginable proportions. He couldn’t go on much longer.
A pulsing light began to glow at the center of the pyramid, and the witches groaned and chanted in unison, grinding against Bruce so that an electrical pulse arced between them. The jolt convulsed Bruce, and his cock erupted, filling Ginger’s quivering quim with hot cream that dripped down her leg onto the cock ring. The two crones cried out in one terrifying voice that shattered every jar and bottle in the dungeon, and Bruce was released with a gut-wrenching pang of pleasure that left him feeling slightly disembodied.