Part 1 - https://www.literotica.com/s/witchey-women-at-the-koa
Part 2 - https://www.literotica.com/s/the-one-where-i-fuck-a-witch
Part 3 - https://www.literotica.com/s/fuck-another-witch-and-find-out
Part 4 - https://www.literotica.com/s/the-first-hundred-year-ago-fuck
Part 5 - https://www.literotica.com/s/just-a-fucking-gigolo
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WITCHEY WOMEN - Pt. 6
Fucking on Dee-Dee's Time
I wake up with the sun coming through the window to my room. The electric clock on the nightstand says it's a little after nine.
Today's fuck is the last fuck -- of ten -- that I have to fulfill as a condition of the agreement I struck (under duress) with my captor-of-the-moment, Deidre.
If you haven't read my other "Witchey Women" accounts, Deidre is a Time-Witch who has essentially kidnapped me... while she was fucking me... and transported both of us to a time a hundred years in the past.
Her half-sister, Lily, who's also a witch, cast a spell on my cock so that it's massive, and it never gets un-massive. I can also fuck continuously... over and over... if that's what Deidre's "clients" want.
Deidre is selling my cock all over this little town to older Mountain Girls who want one more fuck in their lives.
These women aren't old when I fuck them, though. Deidre uses a different witch's spell to make the women feel -- and look -- years younger than their actual age. She also practices a form of hypnotism which makes the women far less inhibited.
I'm in the sixth day of this arrangement. And I haven't yet figured out a way to be happy about it.
To get back to *my* time, I have to fuck Deidre once more... whether I want to or not. She insists we have to be conjoined to move safely through the time-portal wormhole she creates with her magic spell.
During this period of captivity, the sex has been abundant... and amazing. But fucking - twice a day - every day with a total stranger, can't be anything more than just mechanical.
I have no connection with these women, other than the obvious. There's nothing emotional about it, other than what we construct between us in the brief time we have together. I find satisfaction, I guess, in the fact that they enjoy being fucked by my monstrous cock, but it's about the same as giving a pan-handler two dollars while waiting for the light to change at an intersection.
It's a strange and unwanted exploration into what people who choose to be whores - for ANYbody - all the time.
Deidre knows this. She knows I believe she's sex-trafficking. The money she's apparently making is blinding her to every moral or legal obstacle to this arrangement.
I'm her man-whore. For one more fuck.
I take a shower and put on a fresh pair of flannel pants and a clean T-shirt.
I prepare the seating area and arrange the glasses and the bourbon. The lube is on the nightstand by the bed.
Precisely at eleven A.M. four soft knocks come at the door that links my room with Deidre's.
The door opens a crack and I hear Deidre's voice: "Mister Spencer, may I bring you a visitor?"
It's the way Deidre introduced my first guest, Lizzie. Over the last eight women that Deidre's brought to me for sex, the introductions have gotten a little less formal.
This introduction indicates that Deidre might have a somewhat higher level of respect for this particular guest.
I'm seated at one of the chairs and I stand and reply: "Thank you, Deidre. Please show her in."
I see Deidre's fingers around the edge of the door as it swings open further. "You can go in now," I hear her voice say softly.
A woman walks through the door and Deidre closes it softly behind her.
The woman is wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe, tied loosely at the waist. Her blond hair cascades in soft waves down both sides of her face. She is barefoot.
The woman walks softly but with direct elegance across the four or five steps between the door and the table and chairs at the end of the bed. She stops in front of me and gives me a soft smile as she looks straight into my eyes.
She seems to be a woman who is used to taking control of situations.
"Good morning, Mister Spencer," the woman says confidently in a rich, warm, sultry Lauren Bacall-type voice.
"My name is Emma. Thank you for your time this mornin'. Deidre has told me quite a bit about you."
And... holy shit... she's a fucking goddess!
Her eyes are as blue as caribbean waters and they sparkle delightfully into mine.
Her face is oval-shaped, with a sharp jawline that curves down to a slender neck. Her nose is a moderate length and leads straight to soft, rich, full lips. There is a dimple on her chin.
There's even a small beauty mark on her left cheek, just above and to the right of the curl in her lips as she smiles softly at me.
Even under the robe, Emma has a slender frame.
The robe is gathered around her waist so it's hard to tell the actual size, but her waist looks to be fit and petite.
The neck of the robe makes a "V" shape from her shoulders to her bustline but I can see a line of cleavage that indicates she has quite a rack on her. She's a few inches shorter than I am.
"Good morning, Emma," I reply. "Please call me Clay.
"It's very nice to meet you."
I extend my right hand to grasp hers and Emma reacts immediately by pulling her hands back and away from my potential grasp.
"No, no... don't touch... not yet," Emma says softly but with a bit of urgency.
She reads the confusion on my face.
"Deidre says I'm gonna look like this for a hour only," Emma assures.
"She says the clock starts tickin' when our skins meet.
"I don't want our time to end too early. Makes no sense at'all to go a-rushin.
"Why don't we sit a spell... and just visit."
If this woman wasn't drop-dead fucking gorgeous and at least fifty years younger, I could swear I was talking to Aunt Hattie back in her cabin again.
Emma is clearly a Mountain Girl of the first order.
"That sounds delightful," I reply as I gesture towards one of the chairs. "May I offer you something to drink?"
Emma moves gracefully to the chair furthest away from the bed and moves to sit in it.
"A splash o' that whiskey you got there?" she responds. "That'd be right nice."
I smile as I pour a splash for both of us. I turn with one glass in each hand. I'm holding them at the tops of the glass; Emma is careful to grasp hers from the bottom.
I sit in my chair and look back to take in my guest. Emma has one leg crossed over the other at the knee. The crossed leg is revealed by the gap in the robe... and it's beautiful.
The bare foot leads to a dainty ankle which leads to a sculpted calf. Above the knee, a hint of a toned thigh is visable before the robe shields the rest from view.
Emma watches my eyes as they savor the further glimpse of her skin that she has provided. When our eyes meet, Emma is smiling richly into mine.
She knows what I'm thinking, but she waits for me to say it.
"Emma," I begin, "you are an extraordinarily beautiful woman! When Deidre was telling me about you yesterday she said I could expect a movie star, but...."
Emma laughs softly as she takes a sip of her bourbon.
"I ain't no damn star of no damn movie," she says quietly. The slightest blush graces her cheeks.
I sip my bourbon and reply, "Well, I've heard about you -- more than once... from several people -- in just the few days that I've been here.
"You might not be famous for any movies, but you're still quite the legend around here."
Emma sets her glass on the end table and looks up at me with a knowing smile.
"You must be talkin' about my biscuits," she says softly.
I realize, too late, that maybe I didn't want to bring that up so quickly. So I don't respond, other than to keep my gaze on this gorgeous creature.
Emma looks wistfully toward the window and out to the mountains beyond.
"Clay, I spent all of my eighty-one years up in these hills," Emma says softly.
"Most of um?.... purty good."
She looks back at me.
"That biscuit story might just out-live me yet."
She picks up her glass and takes a thoughtful sip. Then she returns the glass to the table and looks back at me.
"That man taught me a lesson," she says directly. "He taught me what road I was on... and what road I weren't on.
"If I wanted anythin' diff'ernt than what he was givin' me, well... I'd just hafta go find another road.
"And I'm glad I walked the road I wanted to walk."
And Emma gives me a beautiful smile.
I realize I'm sitting with an extraordinary person.
"That's quite the accomplishment for any woman... in any time," I reply.
I take a sip of my bourbon, and Emma asks:
"So, you say I'm a legend...
"... who's the first 'un what told you 'bout me?"
"It was Deidre's Aunt Harriett," I answer. "I don't know her last name. Everybody just calls her Hattie."
"Oh... mercy! Hattie," Emma replies with a smile. "She's that cute little witch with the spirit shop out the highway.
"She hypnotizes people and then tells 'em what they wants to hear."
Emma says this like Hattie's shop is still open. But Lily told me it was open "back in the day."
Oh, well. Maybe at her age Emma's mind is playing tricks on her.
I decide to change the subject.
"Deidre said our appointment needed to be this morning," I explore, "instead of yesterday evening?"
"Oh, lawd, yes," Emma replied. "I just got back from a trip across a couple o' these mountains.
"I'd-a been too tired to see you after gettin' back from Spruce Pine."
Spruce Pine is a tiny village about a hundred-fifty miles from where we are. I'm surprised that an eighty-one year-old woman would embark on such a long trip across rugged mountain terrain at nearly any age... much less in Nineteen-Twenty-Four.
"What's there for you?" I ask. "Family? Business?"
Emma sips another sip of bourbon.
"I like to look at things that might not be worth much now," she says softly, "but will probly be worth a lot more... later."
"Deidre told me you were a shrewd business woman," I compliment. "What is in Spruce Pine that interests you?"
"Well right now, not much more than a buncha rocks," Emma replies.
I begin to take a sip of my bourbon.
"But you heard-a computer chips?" Emma continues. "You heard-a a company... what is it called?... Ee-un-tail??"
My lips freeze on my bourbon glass.
Emma is talking about a technology... about a company -- Intel... that won't be in existence for another fifty years.
