A Witch's Harem

Chapter One: Oh the places you?ll go

Intellegent Perv

A young woman stands by the second story window of small, dirty, old house in Grandville. The moonlight turns her skin luminous and her hair dark silver. Even her eyelashes, dark and heavy in the daytime look like they have been stolen from the head of a moth in the moonlight. Her full lips are pale but perhaps they are the same in daylight. Her long, sharp nose cuts a shadow through her face and her small little titties try to burst from her evening dress to tan in the moonbeams. She is looking down at something below and what she sees makes her frown.

She used to be of good family. Everybody thought her to be a witch when they saw her nose but she is eighteen years old now and there is no sign of that promised magic. At one time she could have afforded nicer rooms then in Grandville. But her father was a man of great passions, so great in fact that he would spend months on end as an "old tom" in the mad house Schödinger's Sqr. It would start with a pretty lady whether she be virginal or married. And then her mother would intercept the letters from the banks. Bills for chocolates and furs while another fine heirloom would go missing. He was not above recycling the handsels he had given her mother when they were still in love.

For these tokens her father demanded a woman's heart and soul and sometimes bed. From midnight to dawn he would rant and rave against their locked doors, blinding one woman's son when he threw a rock at a random silhouette in the. The bobbies would come to drag him away (which she had been witness to on two occasions) and he'd be declared too insane for trial. It would be off to Schödinger's Sqr. again. Then until Mother was tired of loneliness (or else was just as crazy as he and thought s lesson learned) and have the doctors declare him sane.

But her father was a man of great passions and when he had exhausted all the pretty socialites in Albion he wondered what else there was to live for. Indeed nothing: he was not a patron of any art nor felt moved to refine his trade anymore then needed. "So why bother?" read his suicide note. "Why should I be to lead a life bound in boredom?" He died how he lived, strung up with a green silk cord around his neck and a whore around his cock.

?I?m like my father,? she thinks. Because she knows that if she stays here any longer she will die, stupid and shrivelled like a mummy with her brains drawn through her long and useless nose. She has his desire. It?s not entirely sexual though it starts in her clitoris. It moves to the rest of her loins and she gets so hot that she swears her mother will smell the burning. This heat pushes up into her abdomen and radiates around her thighs. By then she starts to panic and she must make excuses to leave the room before her toes curl too much for her to walk properly. She shivers and spasms, this heat not leaving her. She would masturbate if she weren?t afraid to scold her hands on the burning juices. But as it is as quickly as the heat comes it goes, leaving a cold tight feeling in her chest that her mother diagnoses as simple nerves.

So she sits in this grubby and lukewarm house, dreary boredom manifested in physical form she thinks, while she smoulders in it hot and frustrated. If she stays in this house any longer she will set it on fire either by her own two hands or her own two spread legs. She must do something soon! And she has a specific something in her mind.

That is why tonight she has opened her window up. On the second Friday of every month there is a new show on at the theatre. Her mother goes in all the finery she has left to keep up appearances. Usually she is taken too though her mother is indecisive of whether or not she is there to lure a man or not. But tonight the young woman has pled nervousness. Because it is just so that also on the second Friday of every month a man comes to sell his wares under her window.

He is a handsome man; a broad shouldered and dark skinned Negro who has forgone his native attire for the latest Albion fashions. He sells books on the street. Or at least that is his pretence. His paperbacks are too erotic for the prudes in this suburb. The bobbies have been called more times for him than they have for her late father. But they always walk straight past him, even when Mrs. White stands in her great coat shaking her finger at him. The young woman supposes that he glamours himself away from them.

She wonders if his real trade is in whores. If so she feels quiet curious. It is an odd feeling. She had been brought up to be offended by such things. Because she is without doubt that he is here for her. But she?s excited by it. There?s a more passive heat to her loins then is usual. It?s a happy feeling, like she?s on the cusp of a rapture. Or a revelation. But is that really the man?s intent? He seems so patient. She knows that the minute she walks out unchaperoned he?d trap her and make her his own in as many ways possible. But he is willing to wait month after month for her to walk into such a trap knowingly and by her own accord. The situation has long since stopped scaring her, leaving only excitement.

?I could make a living that way,? she thinks. ?I really could.? She knows there is nothing for her here but to be deported to finishing school when her mother finally decides she needs to be married. But at finishing school she knows she would be free to choose the man, away from her mother?s prying eyes.

To live a life on her back would certainly be exciting. She could do it too, she has the body. It may even be an eventuality if her mother keeps up these appearances and neither of them marry. It might be prudent to get a head start.

She does not know the man under her window, waxed head gleaming in the moonlight as he rearranges his books. But she likes to make up stories about him. She thinks he?d do anything to subvert her expectations. Perhaps he courts her only for himself?