Historical | Witchraft | Erotic

Wearing Fishnet to Snare the Man who Would be King

There’s a price to pay for loving a power hungry witch

I wanted him, he was handsome and virile and his eyes burned for me. But more than that, I wanted his power, his influence, the lands he ruled and the people who bowed to him. That’s what made me writhe in my bed at night; what dampened the flesh between my thighs and burned like insatiable hunger in my belly.

My own touches, while thrilling, could never satisfy the yearning I’d endured since my breasts had budded and hair had shown on my mount of venus, but now I was a woman, fully grown into my power.

I had my doubts that his manhood would quench my thirst, but I drooled for it nonetheless.

I would grasp his power, as easily as I could grip his shaft. I’d bespell this man they called king. He had come from nothing, from humble beginnings, his ability to wield the enchanted sword the only thing which marked him out for greatness. Nobles knelt for him, dukes and high clergy pledged their troth and the common people, hungry and tired, had longed for leadership, for salvation — they nigh on worshipped him.

I wanted that for me! Once he was in my thrall, their tributes, their allegiance was mine to bend and shape.

I cupped my breasts, pulling long and hard on their tender tips, to awaken the raging creature inside me, my desire manifested like a monster from within. I clasped the hilt of the dagger which my father once carried, and let my tongue caress its pommel. I licked and sucked its girth into the cavern of my mouth, wetting it with my saliva before teasing it at the entrance to my slit.

This was an ancient dance, one which my body knew well. If I worshipped at the altar of my pleasure, grinding my pudenda against the handle of this weapon, before pressing it into the heat of my body, it was soon suffused by liquid desire. I rode it to my satisfaction, knees spread wide, head held high, my back arched and my pelvis thrusting greedily against the handle of the dagger, until stars and comets were dancing and bursting behind my closed lids.

I would lure the king to my chamber, lower his defences with wine so that he dismissed the men who surrounded him. Counsellors, advisors, generals, their agenda was as greedy as mine, but their packaging neither as pretty, nor as cunning. Under my gown I’d be wearing the netting which fishermen use, a ruse I learned in my youth, from a hedge witch, as effective for snaring men as it is for catching fish.

Once I loosened the stays from my gown, he would look upon the beauty and glory of my curves and be lost. Desire leads all men, weak and strong, hale and frail, by their cocks. Gazing on my body, the blood would pound in his temples and swell his prick, and all sane thought would fly out of his head.

I would lay everything he wants before him. I’ll appear supplicant, a willing maiden, louche and loving. All my curves and swells wrapped to intrigue him, like a sacred offering, in the criss-cross pattern of netting. It drives men wild with desire. My charms would beckon him to ravish every inch of me and fill me with his seed.

His seed — that’s the final ingredient of my spell, I want him to breed me.

Once he rides me, his manhood plunging deep in the folds of my flower, I shall milk it from him. Therein lies his power, his essence. His strength will become his weakness. He might be king now, but I shall soon carry his seed, growing a child within me. While I fatten with fecundity, this king’s warrior ways will fall away. His desire to nurture me will trump all others. I will have his ear, and his counsel, my pillow talk soon shaping his plans for the future: who to fight, who to make alliance with, where to spend, when to squander.

Behind every great man stands an even greater woman.

I have chosen Arthur and I will conquer him.

Inviting Celia McKinley Ariel Bruhl Dianne Herbert Marcello Spektor to check out this new erotic publication. Read another piece of Posy’s erotic fiction

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