Fucking On Dee Dees Time

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.

I set my glass down and stare closely at this beautiful woman sitting across from me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

My mind is reeling. Similar to the reeling when I was in bed with Lily and she proposed making my cock bigger... because she could.

And, like then with Lily, the revelation hits me:

"You're a witch, too," I declare quietly into Emma's eyes.

I think for another few seconds while Emma smiles her beautiful smile at me.

"Except you can also go forward in time," I continue, "and discover that the nearly-pure silica sand around Spruce Pine will be a critical component in just about every electronic device on the planet.

"Because of the chip market that depends on it."

I sip my bourbon carefully.

"So... you're a time-witch too. Just like Deidre," I state, declaritively.

Emma coos back at me: "Ain't sayin' I am... ain't sayin' I ain't,"

She picks up her glass and swirls her bourbon. She seems almost proud that I've pieced together the puzzle.

She coyly dips the tip of the index finger of her free hand into the liquid, then pulls it to her lips and suckles her finger slowly while she beams at me.

I can't help but hope my cock gets a similar treatment. My cock twitches its concurrence with that thought.

"Deidre knows y'all are witches of a similar...discipline?" I wonder aloud, to myself and to Emma.

"She does," Emma replies. She stops twiddling with her glass. Her smile dims and she looks across at me with a slightly more serious tone.

"Witches who practice the same type of witchcraft have something of a... what's the word?... unity with each other.

"Dee-Dee and I ran into each other when she came to town a few years ago. This hotel was just being built then.

"She was all excited about it. Kept sayin' she was gonna buy it when she got back to her time.

"Never made no sense to me."

Lily had explained to me earlier that Deidre had purchased the hotel "after one of her trips."

I have another thought: "So, if you're a time witch like Deidre," I begin, "why are you limited to just an hour with me? Why can't you stretch that out if you want to?"

Emma replies immediately: "This ain't my spell," she declares matter-of-factly. "It's Dee-Dee's.

"I was willin' to go under it to be with you. But I cain't change it round or nothin'."

Emma's serious tone continues.

"I wanna say sumthin' while I'm thinking' it," Emma continues.

"I *am* a time-witch. But I'm not just... like... Dee-Dee.

"Dee-Dee don't practice her time magic like I practice mine, Clay," Emma says softly.

"She don't practice with the care that I think she should. I mean... I'd never try to take anybody with me. It makes it too complicated. Too risky."

Emma sips her bourbon.

She continues: "I ain't sayin' she's dangerous, but..." Emma lets the sentence trail off.

My mind fills the sentence in with Emma's voice: ("I ain't saying' she ain't.")

Emma continues, softly, like she's trying to make sure I'm the only one who hears:

"Clay, I know she tricked you into comin' here."

"She says she's makin' lots of money, thanks to you.

"She says she's aimin' to get you home safe.

"I surely hope she does.

"'Cause you seem to me to be a right fine fella."

Emma smiles and raises her glass. Her voice brightens: "Let's toast to that, huh?"

I grab my glass and raise it to clink with Emma's. In the process, my fingers graze against hers.

Emma freezes with the glass against her lips. Her eyes acknowledge the realization. Then she laughs softly into the glass and drains her bourbon.

"Uh-oh," Emma says softly as she sets her glass down.

"Our skins touched. My hour has started."

Emma she stands from her chair.

"I guess we best get started, too."

I feel mortified.

"Oh, Emma... I'm sorry," I say softly as I stand as well. "I just wanted..." I struggle to find the words. "I just wanted you to be ready."

"Oh, honey," Emma coos as she begins to loosen the belt holding her robe together.

"I have heard about you. Shit, this whole dang town's heard about you.

"I am *more* than ready!"

For some reason, I still want to protest.

"But the story... about the recipe... I want to hear it from your... from your point of view!"

During my protest, Emma has turned away so her back is to me.

She looks back over her shoulder and smiles, and then Emma winks at me with her gorgeous right eye.

"Well, Clay," she coos, "I guess we'll just have to talk and fuck at the same time."

And Emma's hands push the now-loosened robe off her shoulders. It flumps softly to the floor.

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Last night Deidre encouraged me to imagine a famous movie star, like Rita Hayworth, in this room... naked.

I'll paraphrase what Emma said a few minutes ago: "I ain't no damn movie star."

But now Emma is naked before me. And, even from the back, she could certainly fill the bill of anyone in 1924's Hollywood.

Her wavy blonde hair falls softly down the middle of her back, ending just below her shoulder blades.

Her back is toned, almost muscular, and slopes inward from both sides, ending at a narrow waist.

Her ass is also toned and tight. It's topped with the "dimples of Venus" indentations in her sacral area.

Emma's thighs, from the back, are what I expected; full, but not overly so, and with a toned tightness that extends downward to her calves.

And then she pivots to face me. And, oh my god...

The cleavage I observed while Emma had her robe on *was* the result of a bountiful rack.

Emma's breasts are full -- probably a large "b" or small-ish "c" cup -- and beautifully round; full enough that they droop slightly against her chest.

Her areolae are of moderate size - maybe a little larger than a quarter - and her nipples sit directly in the center. And they're delightfully erect.

Her stomach is taut and flat. Her hips are perfectly proportional to the rest of her body.

Her womanhood is shielded by a soft tuft of pubic hair. She must trim it somehow; it's delicate, not out of control.

Standing naked before me, Emma could easily be a model for an ancient Greek sculptor or the guy carving the mermaid for the prow of some ocean-going clipper ship.

This review has only taken seconds.

"Emma... jesus!" is all I can whisper.

We're only a few steps away from each other, and Emma does a sultry slow-walk towards me until we're nose-to-nose.

She reaches both hands up and pulls my face to hers, tilting our heads for an appropriate fit.

Then Emma softly, but fully, kisses me.

Her lips are warm and soft. And I feel a fire building inside this woman.

The kiss breaks, and then resumes. Emma wraps her arms around me and I move my hands to her waist. I pull her body into mine.

The kiss grows. Her hands and my hands are everywhere. Emma's tongue reaches into my mouth to wrestle with mine. I grip her gorgeous ass and pull her pelvis into mine.

The second kiss breaks.

Emma seems to be plotting her course for our encounter.

She moves her mouth to my left ear.

"So, you wanna know how I done what I done with the biscuit recipe?" Emma hisses into my ear.

"I can't wait to hear it," I reply with a hiss of my own. I'm able to twist my head to capture a piece of Emma's neck. She allows the kiss, and I add a tiny nip of my teeth.

Emma reacts. "Ooohh!!" She gives me an evil grin. "Why, Clay... you're a rascal!"

She continues her story.

"I got even with that man who defiled me and my name," Emma states.

She pulls my T-shirt over my head.

"Not only did I spread the truth 'bout his filthy self all over these mountains... (her hands move to my waistline and she begins to push the flannels down. She helps me step out of them.)...

"... I made myself a small fortune a-doin' it."

Emma stops and takes a long look at my dick, enlarged and engorged - still - from Lily's spell six days ago.

It's gotten maybe even a bit bigger, seeing Emma's incredible naked body and kissing her just now.

"Oh, my goodness," she whispers.

Emma drops to her knees in front of me. She reaches out and runs her fingers softly along the length of my erection.

In a voice that seems almost mesmerized, Emma continues her narrative, as she softly strokes my cock:

"I'd call ever-body together -- the women and their men -- at the center of town to tell 'em about my biscuits.

"And I'd..." and then she pauses.

"I'd give 'em samples..." and Emma's voice trails away.

Emma wraps her right hand around my meat-pole. Then she looks up into my eyes and gives me a wicked smile.

And she returns her attention to my cock.

Not all of the women I fucked this week wanted to perform orally on me. Not all of them wanted oral from me. I'm their Gigolo... it's not my role to do anything with them, or to them, that they don't want from me.

Of the ones who *did* want my dick in their mouth, a couple of them were better at the task than the rest.

Abby, on the first night, blew my fucking mind with her oral proclivities. Another one, whose name escapes me right now, spent many wonderfully-loving minutes feasting on my cock before we fucked. I think we even sixty-nined before we were done.

Now, I think I'm particularly going to enjoy Emma's ministrations on my member.

Emma pulls her eyes away from mine. And she doesn't hesitate on what happens next.