"You have to know."

Astarte and her witches are taking a bath.

She’s tall, around six foot four, with deep purple skin and two coiled black ram’s horns on either side of her head. Long midnight-black hair that cascades over her voluptuous form, clinging to the magnificent slopes of her mighty breasts. The only thing she wears is a silvery tiara, with a blazing red jewel set between her horns.

Her ass is awe-inspiring. Full, round, dripping with water, swaying like the tides. Her pussy nestles in a deliciously soft, inviting nest of velvety black curls, the faintest hint of violet peeping between her labia as she kicks her legs playfully in the water, sitting on the edge of a warm, steaming pool as long as two mortal football fields.

Thousands of witches splash and frolic in the water, dunking each other, giggling, sitting on the steps. Tall witches. Short witches. Blonde witches. Ginger witches. Mexican witches. Russian witches. Balinese witches. Every possible kind of witch, every possible type of pretty girl. All of them stark naked. You’ve spent the last three weeks, in subjective time, hanging out in the bathhouse, watching them play with each other. You’re not tired of it.

Your invisibility charm seems to be working. Good.

But you haven’t yet mustered up the courage to try the final test.

There, on Astarte’s head, gleams the Pridestone that is the source of all her powers. Steal it, and she and all her witches will be yours to command. Fail, and you’ll be their captives, possibly for years, subject to their every wicked and humiliating whim. You’ve never been able to get your hands on it before, though you’ve long lusted after it. Dare you make the effort now. Has your power really grown so much?

You hesitate. But you’ve come this far. You have to know.