LJ Idol Week 41: Koro
Bewitched
The time before the witches were hunted, they flew above the radar with much more ease. Nearly every village had at least one home set slightly deeper in the woods than the rest inhabited by a lone woman. She was sometimes young, and sometimes old; she was sometimes lovely and sometimes weathered. She was always, always fierce, and she always had a large garden.
Nearly every village also had at least one--and often more--fellow whose shadow walked perfectly in line with him, never stepping out because there was no need. The sun fell always on his face and the breeze rustled his hair just right. However, the handsome face and chiseled chest unfortunately had a tendency to carry with it an unhealthy confidence that bubbled up and spilled over the top.
One village had such a young man by the name of Henry. Girls fell over their own feet trying to get to him, and he did his best to have them all. Only one failed to bend to his whim--Mara. In fact, she didn't even look at him. He would have taken a sneer, for at least he'd know he had her eye, but it was as though he didn't even exist. It drove him mad, to the point where she was all he could think about.
Everyone generally accepted that Mara was the witch of the village, but she kept to herself well enough. She got an extra eyeballing now and again, but she had never been much of a threat to anyone. The only accusation she had ever faced was brought on by the men whose glances lingered too long explaining to their wives that it was certainly not their faults--they'd been bewitched!
Bewitched, repeated Henry to himself as he stalked through the woods late one night. Having never faced rejection before, let alone so sorely as finding himself completely ignored, a bewitching was the only explanation he could surmise. Suppose Mara was playing a game with him? This had to be it. He was simply impossible to miss, and there was no way she could resist him. She wanted him, and he knew it. So he had waited for a moonless night and kept watch outside her house. She had stayed up quite later than he expected, tending to her garden in the dark and talking softly to the plants. When she finally retired, he waited until he thought he might burst before slipping quietly inside her home.
One of Henry's most renowned parts, he knew, was his very manhood that he wielded as weapon and regarded as prize. He clutched it fondly as he moved as silently as he could through her home. This game was one he figured out quickly, and he dressed black from his head to his toes and carried with him a rag drenched in ether. He stood at the side of her bed for a moment before gently reaching out to caress her cheek with the back of one hand. He brought the rag to her lips with the other and pressed down firmly. Her eyes opened immediately, giant and blue ice, but they closed with ease. He poked her once, twice, until he was sure she wasn't going to awaken, and then the game was over. He had her. Bewitched, he thought as he entered her. Bewitched, he thought as he cleaned himself and slipped out the door.
The next morning, Mara was out in her garden before the sun rose. When she woke, she was in a fog but still able to recall the exact nature of her violation, as the ether could not blind her third eye that watched in careful horror. She stayed in bed frozen for a few moments unsure of what she could do, but the answer came quickly. An eye for an eye, a prize for a prize. She crouched in the corner of her garden saved for the most twisted thoughts of all and whispered into the earth for a moment. She brought her ear to the ground and listened for the thump--baDUM baDUM baDUM--and smiled. She wrapped her fist around the base of a lovely purple flower cluster and yanked. It resisted at first.
"Come on now," she muttered. At the sound of her voice, the root loosened and she almost fell back. With one big tug, the mandrake was free. She stuffed it in her bag to muffle its scream and darted into her kitchen. Mara had carefully saved a vial of the essence he had left inside of her. She placed the mandrake root, still writhing, on her table and poured three drops of Henry's seed on its center. She closed her eyes and pictured his face, then trailed down his chest where her eyes settled on the vile thing between his legs. She opened her eyes and held the mandrake down firm. She picked up her obsidian blade in her left hand and spun the mandrake with her right. On its third way round, she brought the blade down directly between its legs. It let out one more wail, its limbs so tense it nearly rose off the table, then went limp.
Henry was also awake before the sun, too excited to sleep. His mind was reeling from the rush of his conquest. He had always held such power over the female species, but this was a new type of control all together. He found himself cataloging the others in his head, whom he could conquer next. Of course they'd have him willing, but this was beside the point. A woman beneath him so delicate and unable to move--he found himself aroused at this very thought. He had exerted himself so completely with Mara he would have expected to wait quite a bit before he was ready to go again, but his manhood was becoming more formidable by the moment. May as well release the beast, he thought to himself. He pulled it out of his trousers. It was a glorious specimen indeed, nearly too big for a woman's hand. He chuckled to himself as he began to stroke. Mara's face appeared before him, an angel sleeping gently on her pillow. He relaxed, enjoying himself thoroughly, but was quickly interrupted by a terrible screech--Mara's eyes were open wide and--was she laughing? She was laughing. Something wasn't right.
He looked down at himself in his hand. Was it smaller? It looked smaller. It can't be, he thought. He closed his eyes and tried to continue, but after a moment they snapped open again. It was definitely smaller, nearly a third of the way gone. Henry wasn't one for crying, but as he blinked his stinging eyes they flooded over and he let out a shuddering breath. He pulled as hard as he could, but something inside him pulled back. His glorious staff of masculine prowess was reduced to a stub too small to wrap his hand around. He choked out a strangled sob, wiping sweat from his brow. It smelled like defeat. His member now protruded no further than the tip of a finger. He felt a great suction from somewhere in his belly, then--POP POP POP--his whole package was sucked entirely inside of himself, leaving behind only a wilted mass of very sad hair. He could swear he heard it screaming.
The laughter came back, and he looked up to see Mara's face. She was smiling; she looked like the moon. She pointed one finger at him--"Bewitched," she snarled.
The time before the witches were hunted, they flew above the radar with much more ease. Nearly every village had at least one home set slightly deeper in the woods than the rest inhabited by a lone woman. She was sometimes young, and sometimes old; she was sometimes lovely and sometimes weathered. She was always, always fierce, and she always had a large garden.
Nearly every village also had at least one--and often more--fellow whose shadow walked perfectly in line with him, never stepping out because there was no need. The sun fell always on his face and the breeze rustled his hair just right. However, the handsome face and chiseled chest unfortunately had a tendency to carry with it an unhealthy confidence that bubbled up and spilled over the top.
One village had such a young man by the name of Henry. Girls fell over their own feet trying to get to him, and he did his best to have them all. Only one failed to bend to his whim--Mara. In fact, she didn't even look at him. He would have taken a sneer, for at least he'd know he had her eye, but it was as though he didn't even exist. It drove him mad, to the point where she was all he could think about.
Everyone generally accepted that Mara was the witch of the village, but she kept to herself well enough. She got an extra eyeballing now and again, but she had never been much of a threat to anyone. The only accusation she had ever faced was brought on by the men whose glances lingered too long explaining to their wives that it was certainly not their faults--they'd been bewitched!
Bewitched, repeated Henry to himself as he stalked through the woods late one night. Having never faced rejection before, let alone so sorely as finding himself completely ignored, a bewitching was the only explanation he could surmise. Suppose Mara was playing a game with him? This had to be it. He was simply impossible to miss, and there was no way she could resist him. She wanted him, and he knew it. So he had waited for a moonless night and kept watch outside her house. She had stayed up quite later than he expected, tending to her garden in the dark and talking softly to the plants. When she finally retired, he waited until he thought he might burst before slipping quietly inside her home.
One of Henry's most renowned parts, he knew, was his very manhood that he wielded as weapon and regarded as prize. He clutched it fondly as he moved as silently as he could through her home. This game was one he figured out quickly, and he dressed black from his head to his toes and carried with him a rag drenched in ether. He stood at the side of her bed for a moment before gently reaching out to caress her cheek with the back of one hand. He brought the rag to her lips with the other and pressed down firmly. Her eyes opened immediately, giant and blue ice, but they closed with ease. He poked her once, twice, until he was sure she wasn't going to awaken, and then the game was over. He had her. Bewitched, he thought as he entered her. Bewitched, he thought as he cleaned himself and slipped out the door.
The next morning, Mara was out in her garden before the sun rose. When she woke, she was in a fog but still able to recall the exact nature of her violation, as the ether could not blind her third eye that watched in careful horror. She stayed in bed frozen for a few moments unsure of what she could do, but the answer came quickly. An eye for an eye, a prize for a prize. She crouched in the corner of her garden saved for the most twisted thoughts of all and whispered into the earth for a moment. She brought her ear to the ground and listened for the thump--baDUM baDUM baDUM--and smiled. She wrapped her fist around the base of a lovely purple flower cluster and yanked. It resisted at first.
"Come on now," she muttered. At the sound of her voice, the root loosened and she almost fell back. With one big tug, the mandrake was free. She stuffed it in her bag to muffle its scream and darted into her kitchen. Mara had carefully saved a vial of the essence he had left inside of her. She placed the mandrake root, still writhing, on her table and poured three drops of Henry's seed on its center. She closed her eyes and pictured his face, then trailed down his chest where her eyes settled on the vile thing between his legs. She opened her eyes and held the mandrake down firm. She picked up her obsidian blade in her left hand and spun the mandrake with her right. On its third way round, she brought the blade down directly between its legs. It let out one more wail, its limbs so tense it nearly rose off the table, then went limp.
Henry was also awake before the sun, too excited to sleep. His mind was reeling from the rush of his conquest. He had always held such power over the female species, but this was a new type of control all together. He found himself cataloging the others in his head, whom he could conquer next. Of course they'd have him willing, but this was beside the point. A woman beneath him so delicate and unable to move--he found himself aroused at this very thought. He had exerted himself so completely with Mara he would have expected to wait quite a bit before he was ready to go again, but his manhood was becoming more formidable by the moment. May as well release the beast, he thought to himself. He pulled it out of his trousers. It was a glorious specimen indeed, nearly too big for a woman's hand. He chuckled to himself as he began to stroke. Mara's face appeared before him, an angel sleeping gently on her pillow. He relaxed, enjoying himself thoroughly, but was quickly interrupted by a terrible screech--Mara's eyes were open wide and--was she laughing? She was laughing. Something wasn't right.
He looked down at himself in his hand. Was it smaller? It looked smaller. It can't be, he thought. He closed his eyes and tried to continue, but after a moment they snapped open again. It was definitely smaller, nearly a third of the way gone. Henry wasn't one for crying, but as he blinked his stinging eyes they flooded over and he let out a shuddering breath. He pulled as hard as he could, but something inside him pulled back. His glorious staff of masculine prowess was reduced to a stub too small to wrap his hand around. He choked out a strangled sob, wiping sweat from his brow. It smelled like defeat. His member now protruded no further than the tip of a finger. He felt a great suction from somewhere in his belly, then--POP POP POP--his whole package was sucked entirely inside of himself, leaving behind only a wilted mass of very sad hair. He could swear he heard it screaming.
The laughter came back, and he looked up to see Mara's face. She was smiling; she looked like the moon. She pointed one finger at him--"Bewitched," she snarled.