Message-ID: <5804eli$9711240009@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: buckles8@aol.com (Buckles8) X-Good-Line-Length: yes Subject: NEW..."Witch Hunt" (setup, MMMf, 17th century, lt. nc bdh) COMMENTS WELCOME! Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <19971123195001.OAA17984@ladder01.news.aol.com> Witch Hunt by Pus E. Cat This is my first attempt at a story for ASSM. It's mostly setup and therefore pretty soft. It is also unfinished and really just designed for me to get feedback from you, the reader. I'm having a lot of fun with it, hope you enjoy too. Future parts will probably contain more (and more detailed) of the same, i.e., shamefaced discipline, bondage, humiliation, and possibly the unwelcome (but not terribly violent) deflowering of an unsuspecting young maiden at the hands of religious authority figures. I'd appreciate any comments or advice you might have. Email me at buckles8@aol.com And, of course, THIS FILE CONTAINS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MATERIAL. IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN OR DO NOT CARE TO READ THIS TYPE OF MATERIAL, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW. Setting: 17th Century Salem, Massachusetts She awoke to the sun streaming through the barn windows, finding herself clad only in her corset and bloomers. The dry straw surrounding her had given her some nasty scratches, and her first thought was, "Whatever did you do this time to deserve this, Elizabeth...?" Elizabeth, approaching her twentieth year, was known about town for her playful pranks and "unladylike" musicianship. "Hmm. So perhaps you've really outdone yourself, Elizabeth. And perhaps I've gotten meself into a churn o' trouble, too...." Despite the scratches and her messy appearance, Elizabeth was a beauty. Her long curly golden hair against the rich brown of her suntanned skin, her pouty lips and playful green eyes were certainly not missed by the men of Salem, However, none of them would ever admit it, as Elizabeth defied the current style of Puritanism and utmost modesty. Hence, she was the object of many a man's dreams, yet none would dare approach the girl, except perhaps Reverend Mather, who constantly harped on the girl to change her ways, in the name of godliness. "But why is he always beggin me when I'm in the middle of me toilet?" she thought to herself. The Reverend had a penchant for interrupting Lizzie at the oddest times, most especially, when she was clad in nothing but the wooden washing stall outside her family's cottage. She'd be lathering up with some fresh glycerin soap when he'd come shuffling up, eyes darting left and right ("and usually when Father isn't home to chase him away, 'course!") and ask her to speak to the Lord with him, to find her the path to salvation. Meanwhile, Elizabeth would do her best to keep her bountiful soapy breasts under the protection of her arms as the shower stall reached only to her chest. "Elizabeth Chapman, you're too old to be runnin about town like a gypsy-wench! And playin that forsaken instrument of the devil. Mark my words, you're fated to damnation if you don't change your ghastly habits. Salvation lies beyond those chapel doors, Elizabeth." He was referring to her guitar which she occasionally played in town square for those unfortunates in the stocks. "Reverend, please let me finish me toilet...perhaps we could take this up at another time?" Elizabeth could never understand all the hoopla around the church. She vowed, after her young mother died when she was only ten, to spend her time enjoying life, although she had yet to experience the ultimate joy of the union of man and woman. She was never terribly interested in such things, however, preferring to spend her time with nature and music. Following the religious tongue-lashing, the Reverend Mather would attempt a few more glances into the stall, readjust his pants, and shuffle back to his farmhouse where he'd promptly alleviate the growing concern in his pants. "Oh, demon-woman...I must exorcise you from me own soul," he panted, as he licked his palms and gripped himself, imagining Elizabeth's glistening wet boobs surrounding his member. Picturing his hands tweaking her cherry nipples, squeezing her ample wet breasts with his penis between them...was more than he could stand... Back to Elizabeth's predicament. Seems the day before she was splashing in a stream when suddenly she spied a man in the woods. Curiosity drew her to the other side, and before she knew it, she was speaking with one of the mountain people, known to the townspeople as "The Devil Tribe," as these red-skinned mountain people saw no need for religion or propriety or anything else remotely Puritanical. Reverend Stewart, passing by on horseback, viewed her in conversation with this half-dressed man, and immediately yelled, "I knew it! She IS a witch! She must be punished!" He rode into town with these words on his lips. All important men of the town gathered, and, although Elizabeth had a terribly lenient father who also would give his own life for hers, he was out of town that week trading in Plymouth. "It couldn't be a more perfect time," stated Reverend Mather, who had just seen her father off. "We must exorcise this woman, and if that shouldn't be sufficient, then we will imprison her and do what must be done until she confesses to her true identity!" "Aye!" they chanted, not without some salivation. "This is for the good of our town as a whole; for poor Edward Chapman, her father, who has seen all matters of her impropriety and suffers a heavy heart; and for the girl herself." All the men agreed, glassy-eyed and anxious, and promptly the lynch mob mounted their horses and galloped to the deer stream. "I play the guitar, would you like to hear? It's only across the stream, and perhaps I could teach you," Elizabeth asked the red-skinned man, but he shot into the cover of the woods as soon as he heard the gallop of the mob approaching. "Elizabeth Chapman!! Elizabeth Chapman!! Confess!" Reverend Mather had begun a chant in time to the gallop of the horses. She heard it, yet couldn't believe she was hearing her own name..."Confess what? I haven't done anything wrong...lately...oh, perhaps it was that prank I played on Mary Borden, when I tied her petticoat to the pew at chapel! Oh my...or perhaps it was when I set Mr. Hubbard's sheep free before the slaughter...or...." Elizabeth realized it could have been a number of things. "Elizabeth Chapman, come here for your punishment, or confess to your association with the Sorcerer of Darkness." She hopped from stone to stone over to the group on the other side of the stream, asking, "What am I to confess?" "Your true identity!" "Well, then. Elizabeth Anne Chapman." "And you were sent here by whom?" "Well, I suppose by the union of my mother and father!" "AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!" At that, Mather directed two of the younger men to tie her with rope, binding her legs and arms together. Mather supervised the tying, "To ensure her safety, of course," and directed the boys to wind the rope around her wrists behind her back, several times down between her legs and up between her buttocks and intimate areas, over her shoulders, around the top, bottom, and between her breasts, back around her wrists, around her upper thighs, and then down to her ankles, which were tied in such a way as to be slightly inappropriately spread, but only for the sake of security. She was promptly tied to horseback, and they rode into town. She was effectively hog-tied, her breasts shoved rudely out, and with every gallop, she felt an unfamiliar burning sensation below. They stopped at another stream to water the horses, and the men couldn't help but see her beautiful breasts pushed out, her nipples poking through the many layers of her blouse. Her skirt had been bunched up by the rope, and, from the force of all the galloping, had ridden up so as to allow a view of her roped-up bloomer-clad behind and nether lips. Elizabeth was always embarrassed by her behind, which she felt she inherited from her grandmother, who had large hips, a jutting rear end, and a very small waist. The round melons behind her were even more accentuated by the rope, which both separated them and squeezed them together. She was red-faced from shame. ... to be continued ... ************************************************************************* Comments, advice (or if you have any stories like this!! I love this stuff...) please email me at buckles8@aol.com. ************************************************************************* -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /