"The five little milkmaids."

“But that’s not the worst part,” whispers the imp into Arabella’s ear, as another evil spirit fondles her breasts through the scratchy fabric, and two more tickle her feet. The evil spirits that fill the Vatican’s top secret witch punishment basement can pass through the cloth sacks at will, and freely torment the trembling girl-flesh underneath. “Do you want to hear what really made the five little milkmaids squirm?”

The air is full of whispers. Each one of the immortal witches, dangling in their bondage sacks, getting their exposed bottoms punished by the automatic spanking machines, is at the mercy of her own ethereal familiars, now unleashed to play all the wicked pranks they desire on their former mistresses.

One imp licks Arabella’s earlobe, while another kisses the secret place between her shoulderblades that only her lovers know about. A third twangs her crotchrope, though it’s careful not to let her cum.

“The woodcutter had laid a trap for them. If they wanted their clothes back, they would have to do exactly what he said…”

But the imps’ favorite torture is to sit on the shoulders of their victims and whisper, into their helpless ears, the naughtiest, sexiest, sluttiest, most depraved and wicked and obscene erotic stories they know. The stories are always about helpless young ladies, just like the witches, being tricked by cruel villains and winding up in the most humiliating, degrading, mortifying, naked shameful situations imaginable. The witches just have to dangle there and listen.

Arabella’s pussy is on fire. The crotchrope doesn’t give her a moment’s peace. The sack torments her hard nipples. Every blazing stripe against her bottom is agony. Her whole body’s burning, sweaty, licked and tickled and tantalized beyond endurance. She doesn’t know how much longer she can take it.

She didn’t know it was even possible to be this horny. She’s more desperate to cum than she’s even been in her life. No matter how much she wriggles, how much she struggles in her sack, she can’t get a second of relief.

And the whole time, the imp just sits there on her shoulder, making it worse.

“The girls bent over the stack of firewood, bottoms in the air, as the woodcutter approached with the paddle…”