The Hammer of the Witches – ebook



The Hammer of Witches by Willow Sears

Medieval Europe is a hotbed of Catholic fervor. Hysteria over witches grows, and unscrupulous men use the threat of a burning to elicit sexual favors from vulnerable Fräuleins. Ayla is not a maid to meekly surrender to any man’s cunning lust, or to the flames. When her crimes could see her on the end of both, she is forced to take refuge in the remote manor of her once-love, Frix—a fine man before he was seduced and possessed by a sleep demon. Now he feeds off the souls of the witches he hides and they adore him for it. They surrender to him entirely, their reward carnal rapture. He can find his way into their dreams, so he knows exactly what dark desires they secretly yearn for and how to fulfil them.

This demon wants Ayla more than all. Her energy is purer and he wants to empty her of it. Her strength is her ability to resist the enchantments of any incubus, and she resolves to free her once-love of the demon and win him back for good. Her weakness, however, is a hidden need to cede control to someone truly masterful, to have her rump laid bare and made scarlet at their hand. Though she fights her urges, the demon preys upon them, using all his wiles and the temptation of his lusty witch minions in his effort to defeat Ayla’s resistance. She cannot run, so she must drive the demon out before he can convince her the returns are worth the surrender to him.

An external threat allows a chance to bargain for the return of her once-love, but Ayla must yield her own body to the demon. Can she find the will to resist him once she’s been given a true taste of her spank-hankerings? And can her sin-fearing, strait-laced true love ever fulfill her afterwards, even if she does win him back?

The Hammer of Witches is a historical fantasy dripping with spankings, wild and lusty sex, BDSM (Maledom and some f/f), and voyeurism. It is bound to enthrall any wicked heart.

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Cover Art © Maksim Shmeljob –



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The lodge had many bed chambers, and Isentrude led the guests to one with separate beds. There was intention behind this division, Ayla knew it, though she chose not to voice her concerns. The furnishings reflected a property barely used. There was a pot each, one robe and a coffer to share, and beside each bed a nightstand, upon which sat a candlestick and a little saucer of a fragrant balm.

“What is this?” Ottilie said on sniffing the balm, already looking frantic again, as if worried the contents of the saucer might leap out onto her undefended skin as she slept.

“You need only ever use it if you wish to,” Isentrude replied, avoiding giving the witch’s ointment a name, and demonstrating she’d clearly been well briefed by her master on precisely what to say. “But worry not—a little of it only brings a tingle, and a lovely warm one at that. This candle has enough wick on it to last until morning, if you are fearful of nighttime visits.”

“Well, of course I am!” said Ottilie, who was, though not as entirely as she sounded.

“Can I kiss you then?” the witch asked, but more in the direction of Ayla than Ottilie. “I’ll not bite your lips as I do in my dreams.”

This strangeness brought a frown from Ayla.

“No, you cannot!”

“Can I hold myself open for you then?” Isentrude said, once more unceremoniously hauling up her gown in a crude display of her bareness beneath. What girl had ever shown such overt lewdness? It brought another warble from Ottilie.

“Saints preserve us!” she cried.

“You can go!” Ayla told the witch, making to throw her out bodily if she did not leave of her own volition. For all their fierceness, Ayla did not fear her former friends. Well, not in terms of a fair fight—hand to hand or even dagger to dagger. But they were threatening to use deadlier weapons upon her: lewdness and suggestion and other seductions. She might be strong enough to set her mind against them, but could Ottilie? The coven was hatching something. Isentrude’s coarseness was a part of it. They were spinning webs and their new visitors were the flies.

Ayla turned her back to afford her companion the modesty to change into her nightgown. Ottilie had the blankets suitably pulled right up to her chin, grasped there protectively. But when Ayla came to kiss her on the forehead, and bid her quell any wild thoughts and look to God to give her a peaceful night, she noticed the mark in the ointment. It was barely visible, the lightest touch across the surface from a single guilty finger. But Ayla knew the strength of the witch’s balm. A little could be enough, and Ottilie had given into temptation at the first time of asking.

They lay in silence but for Ottilie’s coarse breaths and the rustle of sheets from her fidgeting. Her legs were twitching beneath the covers, opening and closing, and Ayla knew exactly where the balm had been smeared. She tutted in resignation and extinguished her candle, though her tormented companion kept hers burning, and clutched the sheets with greater fervor as if desperate not to let that same finger wander back down to see to the fire it had started. Eventually her breathing slowed and deepened and her eyes closed, giving in to the exhaustion of the day. But across the room, Ayla could not dampen her busy mind so easily. This night was not finished, she was sure of it.

And she was right.

The candle was a quarter burned when the door eased open and Frix entered. Ayla’s growing sense that he was on his way prevented even the slightest gasp, even though he was bare from head to waist, those tight riding leggings and boots still on. If she had made a sound, maybe it would have broken the spell immediately; brought his attention to her and away from Ottilie. That she didn’t had Ayla feeling guiltily in collusion with him—for his eyes, all lust-hungry, were able to stay fixedly upon his slumbering victim, lit by the candle glow.

Asleep she might have been, but somehow Ottilie seemed as if she knew he was here. They did say incubi came in dreams, visiting only on your summons. Maybe her mind was full of him, and he had come at her call.

Her breathing had become shallower, hoarser. The legs were fidgeting and writhing beneath the sheets once more. She was in torment, heated, and the hands that had so steadfastly gripped the covers protectively under the chin now cast them to the floor. Her heels slid up the bed and dug into its softness. Her hips squirmed, pressing into the mattress and then jerking upwards. An inquisitor witnessing this would claim she had the devil in her. But the most secret part of her mind, that part only she and Frix could see, was doubtless hoping this was still to come.

What fantasy had she and the demon concocted between them in her dream? Did she see him in this chamber, or one in a grander castle and she the lady of it? Or in a glade in the woods, beside a lake or waterfall? Or amongst the tombstones in the priory grounds, ringed by yellow-eyed wolves watching their master and waiting on his command? Ayla knew plenty of the effect this man’s presence could have upon your secret thoughts, upon the rate of your heartbeat. The only time she had seen him in this state of undress they had been laid out together in bright sunshine, hidden by meadow grasses, her head on his bare chest.

“I want you always,” he’d whispered to her that glorious day.

“As if your father would ever allow that!” she’d sniggered back, trying to keep her own heart in check, even if she could hear his was not.

“I want you always,” he’d insisted.

But none of his thoughts were about her now. His eyes were on Ottilie alone, as if Ayla wasn’t even there. Forward he came, and Ayla could see the bulge at his crotch, as big as it had been that day in the meadow. She’d had to fight like mad against the temptation to grasp it back then, for fear of offending his Christian sensibilities and spoiling the moment. But he was not going to be seeking guidance from God tonight, that was for sure.

The victim’s fingers were bent like claws now, like those of the witches. Nails raked at the fabric of her gown, pulling it up to reveal her pale nakedness beneath. All the way up it came, with the hips rising from the bed, giving full view to those soft curls Ayla had only snuck glimpses of before. The nails now left red traces as they raked the bare skin of the thighs, which were flung open to urge him on. Her knees were raised up and held, just as when she’d given birth. And there was that lewd rose-pink slit of hers, all inviting, all swollen from the witches’ balm, all wet for him. The heat would be itching it, making it desperate.

Down into a kneel he went, like when he’d gorged on the wounds of that ginger witch’s behind. He looked no less ravenous now. Two strong hands reached around the fronts of his victim’s thighs and dragged her down the bed, her rump ending half on and half over the foot of it. This was a roughness that would have woken anyone not in the grip of a demon dream. But that was the joy of it; Ayla saw that now. Whatever sins went on here, it was still only a dream. At least that is what the dreamer’s soul could believe. There was no guilt to be attached.

She was there for his taking: legs raised and spread; her breath bated and her mouth open; the lips below equally so, equally yearning for him. You could almost see the pulse in those flesh petals, so fattened by hot blood from the balm they were. Imagine the sensitivity! One touch might be too much. And how he restrained from plunging his tongue straight into that warm well of female yearning was anyone’s guess. Ayla certainly didn’t know, but then his was a demon’s mind, bent on teasing out every last ounce of raw need in you, leaving you a slave to his whim. Instead, a tongue-tip traced lines up the backs of those soft thighs, making the flesh twitch, making his victim pant and whimper.

It was almost too much tenderness. Too Frix-like. Ayla had her own such dreams, and in them he would kiss her all over—not that she had any real hope that any man would bestow this much teasing affection upon his lover when there was a hole to be plundered and aching balls to unload. But in her dreams Frix adored her so much that the need to linger over the beauty he perceived, to kiss and taste every last part of her, outweighed any raging desire in his loins. Indeed, all he wanted to do was build that desire along with hers, so the climax came as a shared rapturous burst that left your body and mind floating in that strange other-world of exaltation; that same wonderful place of sheer bliss the witches flew to when they chanted and danced and drank their potions.

So Ayla wanted him to guzzle and gorge now like a ravening beast. This she could handle without jealousy taking over. After all, she and Frix were destined never to be together. The gulf in social status meant someone else would win him. Because of it, she’d set her soul against the harm of seeing him with another girl. She assumed this was how she was able to avoid springing from the shadows right now to stab him. It was certainly better than the impish notion that she was too rapt in her lewd spying to want it to stop.

Yet here he was being so un-beastly, so patiently gentle, causing Ottilie’s legs to quiver with the titillating attentions of his tongue on the backs of her thighs and behind her knees; with the little bites he was giving her there—some trapping the skin between her teeth, others just the tiny, almost invisible hairs. It was surely more than this silly girl deserved. And she was dying to be filled, Ayla could see it. The need was oozing from her. The witness was certainly dying for it, so there was no way her companion could not be. It was making Ayla squirm and clutch herself under the covers, even though she knew this was exactly the response the cunning demon wanted to elicit from her.

He must also have been desperate. The soft leather at his crotch was bulging with blood-engorged meat. She’d had that same flesh grow in her hand once; felt the pulsing hardness of it. No sword-hilt ever seemed more solid. The heat and throb of it had betrayed his animal lusts. It had taken every Christian sensibility he could muster to stop himself from ravishing her that day; she’d known it even as she was goading him on. Only the fear of eternal hellfire had quelled the flames of his passion. And now as a demon it seemed he was paying her back for the torment she had caused his body that day.

His prick thus stayed crammed inside its leather prison, although Ayla felt close to demanding he unleash it. Would he feed from Ottilie’s soul or just on her blood, as he did the ginger witch? Ayla hoped the latter. It would be too much to take if this contrary fool proved to have the pureness of energy he desired to feed on. Much easier to take if she were simply a blood sacrifice to help keep Frix’s body alive. And maybe that is why Ayla still did not emerge to save her companion. She had to know how the demon intended to feed this night. It must come soon, surely? The temptation of Ottilie’s swollen, wet and itching-hot cunt was surely too great to resist?

And yet patience continued to rule his actions. Even when his tongue reached her split it did not sink inside. No, though she bucked and urged him to bury himself, he continued his tease. He bent lower, administering a swift tongue-flick where her crack began, where she was at her rudest. It caused her to yelp and writhe, though not to wake up. Then up the sides went that tongue-tip, tickling and teasing. She would be mutely screaming her need to have soft lips close over her and suck upon her desperate ache. She would be throbbing fit to burst, even without the balm smeared there.

The tongue eased closer, over her most silken flesh now. Thick spit was released to warm and then cool her throb, to seep down in a tickling trickle. Cool breath was blown to leave her gasping and yearning. Still he would not sink into her. Flicks and even lascivious laps right up her split came, but he simply would not bury that tongue deep, to gorge as he had done with that ginger witch who left his lips and cheeks so glistening wet. His tormenting finally proved too much for the witness to bear.

“I hate you!” Ayla said from the darkness. She instantly hated herself more for this outburst, for letting the demon know he had succeeded in getting to her. But he was so absorbed in his pleasure-giving he didn’t even bat an eyelid. It did not break his spell one iota, and Ayla was suddenly wondering if, it being Ottilie’s dream, anyone outside of it could even register in the lovers’ awareness. Or if he was actually there at all, physically, and what she was spying on was not in fact some kind of conjured demonic illusion.

But he had to be there. She could smell him. She could hear the lewd sounds his lips made on his victim’s as he kissed her down there so affectionately. And surely only real contact could have such visible effects on her. She was even leaching milk now, darkening the gown where the points of her nipples pushed hard against it. Imagine the tease of the fabric, and her always so sensitive there. Imagine if he tortured her there the way he had done the flame-haired witch. It would surely prove too much for her already overwrought senses to bear. It might even stop her heart for good!

And then he rose. Ayla the voyeur sucked in her breath for this surely was the moment. He was bound to haul his leggings down his thighs, and out he would spring, hard and proud. Into that soft body he would sink, and his victim too wet to stop the slide all the way to his balls. The filling of her, so swift and complete, would be tumultuous. Ayla doubted there could ever be a bliss to match it, whatever potions were gulped. Her own hips were jerking upwards from the mattress, urging him on. It was wanton, desperate, but she could not stop herself.

But he could, it seemed. The crotch bulged, but no relief nor release was given to the meat cramped inside. Ayla panted—frantic, impatient, angry. As much as she did not want to witness the man she had once loved bury himself into a girl she could like and dislike in equal measure, to be robbed of the sight would leave a gaping hole demanding to be plugged. Was it an intended tease on his part? Or, unthinkably, did Ottilie have the same moral turmoil in her dreams as she did in all her waking hours? When it came to the crunch, had her pious instincts stepped in to prevent her committing this mortal sin?

Ayla shook her head in disbelief but that beautiful prick was seemingly not to be bared. She would not get to see it again, less still glistening with the juices of bliss; to feel it in her mind’s eye; to imagine it within her as she had so many times, but this time wonderfully accompanied by the rude, unconjured slurps and slaps of sex meeting sex. He merely watched as Ottilie was forced, though still sound asleep, to finish matters with two rubbing and thrusting fingers.

Ayla was shaking.

“I hate you!” she again declared, louder this time, perhaps as much to her companion whose stupid confused licentiousness and piety had drawn him here and then denied them all of the fitting finish. Indeed, she hoped the words roused Ottilie, had her guiltily biting on those fingers rather than pumping them in and out of her thrusting crotch. The tell-tale taste of cum on them would have the selfish moo gabbling Hail Mary’s for weeks!

He did nothing but watch, his eyes still lust-wild, still fixed so intently and wholly upon his victim. He bent from the waist to get a close-up view of her now frantic fingering. Close enough for droplets of her bliss to spatter his face and have him lewdly lick them from his lips. Any other man would be clasping his raging cock at this vulgar, delicious sight. Not this demon. Not this hateful, tormenting fuck. All he did was glare like a wolf waiting to feast as the fingers jammed hard inside Ottilie’s convulsing body and the climax wracked through her.

Then the gaze lost its hunger and he straightened up. As unceremoniously as he’d arrived, he turned to leave. In four strides he’d be gone with no acknowledgement of Ayla whatsoever, no excuses given about why he claimed to want her above all and yet entertained this silly, confused maid instead. No reasons why he hadn’t kissed his victim, hadn’t drawn a single breath from her body, hadn’t taken one drop of her blood. Ayla was on the verge of shouting her demand for answers when suddenly he looked her way. It was the briefest glance and then he was gone.

Ayla lay gripping her hair in anger and torment, and in an attempt to stop her fingers mirroring her companion’s recent wanton display. She did not want to give him any victories tonight. She would not be manipulated. The fact that he hadn’t fed during this visit made things plain: none of it had been about Ottilie. The connection he’d made with her earlier had simply been to root himself into her thoughts, to have her dreaming of him—for that allowed his visit into her dream. These demons, you see, could never force themselves upon anyone. They had to be invited. And why had he wanted to come? To drive his victim to distraction, yes, but not to fill and fuck her needy cunt, which surely her dream would have demanded?

No, the teasing was not aimed at the recipient, but at the witness. It was not Ottilie’s mind he’d been reading but Ayla’s. The close intimacy of him, the patience, the gentleness, but all with him in control—these were her private desires. If the demon had not taken this from her mind, then he’d robbed it from Frix’s—for she and he once read each other so well it was like their thoughts passed through the air between them, like magic.

That one time she’d held him in the woods. He’d gone off to relieve himself and she had mischievously crept after him. She’d wrapped her arms tightly around him, resisted his efforts to shake her loose. One hand had slowly slipped down and taken a hold. She could actually feel the flow through him. It gave a sense somehow of the power of his cock. It was ingrained on her mind even now. And when his stream had finished, her playful waggling to dry him only had him growing within her grip. Hard and full it was. He’d gasped and sighed and pleaded with her no. But she’d kept a hold until she’d whispered:

“Whenever and wherever you kiss me, always do it gently. But never let me tell you to stop.”

It was said as a tease because he’d never defile her, whatever his body secretly wanted. He was too much the gentleman, too much the Christian. And if they couldn’t be wed, they shouldn’t even share kisses. She liked to tease because it was never her standing in the way of their togetherness. It was expectation, society, his father. But she wanted him to know, anyway: treat her preciously, but never be afraid to take control.

And this was the picture he had painted her, with Ottilie as his willing muse. It was about gentleness, trust and utter intimacy. It was about the joys he knew how to give her—and would, as long as she ceded herself to his control. All that wasn’t shown—the unveiling and plunging of his great prick—was mere temptation, bait to lure her in, to leave her starving for more. To make her know those delights were reserved for her alone. For that final look he gave her had been brief but telling. It had carried a message, and it was plain. It said:

You see? You see what pleasures you could take from me, if only you did not resist?


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