Wren and I both received an invitation from Veronika. Both were delivered to Wren’s cottage, which implied she was keeping an eye on us. I came down to the cottage every weekend, and Wren came to my room at college a couple times each week. 

Mrs Veronika Marlinspike invites you to contemplate an Exhibition of Knightly Wonder, a startling sequence of tableaux vivant. Masks mandatory. 

“What does that mean?” I asked Wren.

“It means she screws dolls, but in an artistic way,” said Wren, without looking up from her research, tucking a drawing of a claw out of the way. “Flip over mine; she asks to borrow Enoki.”

I turned over the card; the request was written in fancy handwriting.

“Are you going to agree?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Enoki likes the idea, so why not? At the very least, it will stop it from teasing your pup for a couple of evenings.”

I glanced over to the rug where Enoki was playing with Sophie’s tail.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Are we going then? Like a proper date?”

“Lichen picking was a date,” said Wren.

“But it wasn’t very proper,” I said. “Especially when we discovered that hidden woodland glade.”

“If you are expecting one of Mrs M’s events to have less sex,” said Wren. “You may be wrong.”

* * *

Wren and I visited one of the posher clothing stores, but—on Wren’s advice—to buy a suit rather than a ballgown. She was correct; it fit—in both senses—me better than any dress. I had been worried that it would make me look too manly but…

“Babe, you look like a goddess,” said Wren. “But one of those badass goddesses, smiting entire cities, brawny armed and blood-splattered and stylish.”

“You like then?” I asked.

“Do you think they check the dressing rooms often?” she said. “Because I’m building a heretical tower that the goddess ought to smite, I mean just crush under her heel…”

Wren would not let me buy her a fancy dress, preferring instead to check out the charity shops. She brought a lot of skirts and tops, in a wild variety of styles and colours, and we returned back to my room at college. 

There was a thud as Sophie ran up to welcome me back. A rather confused Enoki looked up from the floor.

“Were you sleeping on Sophie again, cat?” asked Wren.

“It’s comfortable,” said Enoki, with a shrug.

We greeted our dolls, and had a snack, then Wren tried things on.

I tried to restrain my excitement; no matter how many times I saw Wren in bra and panties I couldn’t quite believe I was allowed to. It made me want to do things to her, but, more than that, I knew she wanted me to do things to her. She wanted me.

“Babe, if you keep looking at me like that,” Wren said, “we are never going to decide on a dress.”

“Dress first,” said Enoki. 

“But mog, she’s looking at me like I’m the last piece of cake,” said Wren, “and I just want her to consume every crumb, squishing icing beneath her fingers.”

“Focus, Mistress,” said Enoki. “Verity’s appetite is not going away.”

“Stupid doll,” muttered Wren, but began sorting through her finds, pulling out a large pair of black scissors from her bag.

Wren was a lot better at dressing herself than I was; I’d been taught that there was tweed and linen, and not a lot else. Let me try to describe the ensemble she chose; from a distance, it probably looked like a regular ball gown, in pastel colours. From closer too, though, you could tell that its texture came from how piecemeal it was; everything overlapped—mesh, sequins, canvas, cotton. It had a punky, rock chick vibe, yet never let you doubt it was a ballgown. She ensorcelled illusionary mice to run up and down it, and fungi to sprout from the seams.

Wren did a swirl. “What do you think?” she asked.

“Beautiful,” I said. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said. 

“Enoki and Sophie,” I said, “come and help me undress her. I have some urgent smiting to do.”

“Yes, don’t ruin the clothes,” said Wren. “Ruin me, instead.”

* * *

The house was only dimly lit; as we walked up the gravel drive, only a few candles gave any indication of an event in progress. Wren wore a dark bird mask, dark leather and pearls. I wore a silver mask topped by either antlers or a crown, depending on one’s interpretation. 

As we got closer to the house, we began to see more of the other guests. If—heaven forfend—my mother was here, she would surely recognise some of the guests. I thought the woman in the daggers mask was probably Lady Pennelegion, for instance. Some others I thought I recognised from the edges of my mother’s set. Some I might have recognised from television, though goddess knows, I watch little of it. Most were noble-witches, but several were just nobles, or celebrities, or wealthy. They were even a few men, though mostly as partners to their powerful wives. They formed into small cliques, chatting quietly. Wren and I did not mind; we were both out of place, but we were out of place together.

“Looking beautiful, you two,” said Veronika. She was wearing a simple silvery gown, and no mask. Veronika leaned forward, avoided my mask, and kissed me on the lips. She then did the same to Wren.

“Got to go, loves,” she said. “But please stick around until after the event.”

She moved off through the crowd, greeting and pecking cheeks.

The huge banqueting hall had been converted into something like a playhouse. A stage occupied one end, and the rest of the room was taken up by tables of various sizes. We were led, by a human servant, to a small table with an excellent view. 

It was, again, dimly lit; just well enough that the servers didn’t trip over, bringing champagne and canapés to the tables.

The stage already showed a scene, or maybe a tableau, in progress. Judging by the stylised props and scraps of clothes it was meant to be medieval. A feast perhaps, or the aftermath. There were several dolls, in states of near undress, playing with or teasing each other. Some were dressed as nobles, some as servants. They continued playing with each other, as the guests settled themselves.

Wren squeezed my hand; she was nervous and excited.

A rather striking doll walked out to the center stage, opened its mouth and made a sound like an angel’s chorus. It was made of wood—whorled and varnished—with silver accents. It was ball-jointed, the silver showing where there was some articulation. It was naked and, as far as I could tell, unembarrassed. You could see the wood grain on its breasts, the nipple and areola picked out in silver. Its cock was inert, but the many circles of silver suggested articulation there as well.

“They say it’s the American billionaire’s combat doll,” whispered Wren.

“Combat doll?” I whispered back. There was no sign of weaponry. “And the billionaire isn’t a witch, is she?”

“Obscenely rich, though,” said Wren. “I’m only going by what I’ve heard.”

The angel chorus soon quelled the murmur of guests, and the doll—the narrator, it appeared—began to speak. Its voice was musical, loud and inhuman. 

“All the enemies of the thane of Albion, the most glorious knight, were dead. She had taken all the beautiful women of the kingdom, many times, in many ways. And so, she had become bored…” it began, and lights came up on Veronika, lounging on a wooden throne. She wore a long silver chainmail shirt. A doll approached her, offering an embrace; she pushed it away.

The narrator related that word reached the thane of a dragon consuming maidens and the like. The story was familiar enough; the thane decided to be a hero, and set off.

She travelled across blasted plains, and stopped at a mysterious castle (made of cardboard). The lady of the castle was—obviously to us, if not the thane—a vampire, surrounded by her thralls. There was an elaborate orgy, which made me blush, and at the climax the lady intended to drain the heroine’s blood. But—scene freeze, change of lighting—the Goddess of Albion had gifted her with an enchantment that activated when the thane was naked. As her chainmail shirt came off, the lady of the castle decided not to drink Veronika’s blood, but to suck hungrily on her witchcock instead.

It continued on in much the same manner; a quick scenario, and some sex, the narrator filling in detail that the staging could not. Sometimes, it wasn’t Veronika who had the sex; in the desert the thane persuaded two sand spirits to dance-fuck each other. In another she whipped a dryad very harshly until it decided not to be evil any more. 

It was not Shakespeare, but it was fairly captivating. Mrs Marlinspike was amazing naked; demon-like and sexual. Wren kept grabbing my knee when there was a bit that really excited her; I started making a mental list. Then Wren raised her hand up my leg, and after a bit of awkward fumbling with buttons and zips, dipped her fingers into me. For my part, my hand dived under layers of skirt, and caressed Wren’s witchcock.

In the jungle, Veronika was menaced by a tiger, played by Enoki covered in bodypaint. This scene was rather athletic, Enoki leaping and bounding about, slashing at the thane with some sort of (fake) claw weapons. Veronika parried with a chunk of wood, quite athletic herself. Eventually, she wrestled the tiger into submission, and cemented that by butt-fucking it on a fallen tree. The tiger’s roars gradually became meows, which got a laugh.

And then, the final scene, with the “dragon”; it was, of course, a doll, dressed in an elaborate, stylised costume. A paper tail was operated—swishing and thrashing—by black-clad dolls. Similarly, others controlled a silken “gout of flame”.

They danced and argued, taking off the dragon costume piece by piece. Eventually, they were both naked; Veronika, pale and tattooed, veins showing through her skin in a way that was just this side of beautiful, rather than disturbing, and the “dragon”, its doll body painted with reptilian scales. They wrestled and made love, in a way that was quite artful but also fully pornographic. The other dolls came back on set, also pleasuring each other. There did not seem to be any narrative justification for this.

And then the lights went down, and there was applause. A cleaning—tersus—spell, covering the entire room, went off.

* * *

The narrator returned the “tiger” to us, on a decorative leash. We were standing in the foyer again, though everything was more brightly lit this time.

“Mrs Marlinspike extends her warmest gratitude to you, for the use of your doll, and for attending the event,” the narrator said to Wren, voice quieter now, but still musical. “She will join you later.”

“Are you alright, Enoki?” I asked. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” said Enoki. “Though I think I should have won the fight. And I don’t think they should have laughed at me meowing.”

“Well, you do meow,” said Wren, ruffling its hair. “And it’s very cute.”

The cat-doll hmphed, but leaned into the scritch.

“We’re going to wait for Veronika,” said Wren. “You can stay or go home.”

“Home,” said the cat-doll, yawning. “I could do with a rest. Mrs Marlinspike is a bit too girthy for this kitty.”

Wren patted its head. “No teasing the pup,” she said.

“Of course,” said Enoki, smirking. It turned to me, almost headbutting my chest. “Scritches,” it demanded.

I acquiesced, and Enoki leaned into it, and then vanished when it had had enough. 

“You know,” I said, “You’ve never told me how your cat-doll can apport everywhere.”

Wren shrugged. “Dunno,” she said. “Enoki was the first and only doll I’ve made. I probably got a lot wrong. I think the cat already had that spell. I’ll tell you about it sometime, if Enoki is okay with that.”

I nodded. I could imagine my mother scoffing at asking for a doll’s opinion, but it made sense to me.

After the show, the audience had split into two groups. One had collected their borrowed dolls, and headed off to homes, or at least the privacy of cars, very quickly. The other group had formed little cliques—maybe friends or business colleagues—and were playing with each other’s dolls, and each other. Honestly, Lady Pennelegion’s strap work was impressive, though she was rough with her colleague’s husband.

Wren and I would definitely be in the first group if we weren’t waiting for Veronika; there was a lot on my list.

Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long for Veronika. She emerged, dressed in the silver chainmail, but over black leggings and in expensive shoes. She made a brief round of the orgies; the odd word here, an occasional caress, a smack, or two. 

“Thank you for waiting,” she said. “Did you enjoy watching me?”

We both said yes, simultaneously, and Veronika laughed. “Please come with me,” she said, and walked off, without looking back.

She led us to an unmarked door, being guarded by the narrator doll. She gave it a nod as she walked by. Wren pulled her mask off, and I followed suit.

We followed her down curved steps to a dimly lit basement, perhaps a wine cellar in the past, but now clearly a ritual space. A complex summoning circle was inscribed on the floor, and in the centre, a witchstone. It was large—about the size of my forearm—and crystalline, glowing with blue-white energy. Every so often, some motes of light would appear through the ceiling, and be sucked into the crystal. 

“You’re stealing energy from the guests?” said Wren, impressed.

“Just a little. Sexual energy,” said Veronika. “Who is going to know if sex makes you five percent extra tired?”

Witches, at least, keep a good eye on their magical expenditure, but sex is inherently distracting. 

“It’s so much bigger than the last one,” said Wren. “Did you fill that in the same way?”

“I experimented,” said Veronika. “But this was the best way.”

“Wait,” I said. “You’re going to send even more people to Faerie?”

“No,” said Wren.

“That was a test,” said Veronika. “But, first, Verity, both Wren and I trust you, but if you don’t want to hear any more, you should leave now.”

“Wren?” I said.

“She’s right, babe,” she said. “We could all get into trouble for this. You don’t need to be involved. If you leave, nothing changes between the two of us.”

I thought. “I’ll stay with you,” I said. Wren was sometimes a little extreme for my slightly centrist instincts, but I trusted her like no one else.

“In fairness, Verity,” said Veronika. “You might be called a class traitor for this, as it is the upper class that will be targeted.”

“Good,” I said. They, at least, deserved it.

“Some of them might be injured, or even die,” said Veronika. “Possibly your family. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

I didn’t really have to think about it; I pictured Sophie shivering in that room.

“If my mother had shown any real capacity for feelings,” I said, “I would be worried. She hasn’t. I’m in.”

Veronika nodded, but seemed a bit surprised. “Perhaps the toffs were right; your class does have a surprising amount of backbone,” she said. “The plan is to punish cruelty to dolls. The bad sort of cruelty, you know.”

“Right,” I said. Something I was getting used to was Wren, and Sophie, enjoying being spanked, even a bit brutally, cruelly. But good cruelty.

“Full disclosure,” said Veronika, “I am also doing it because the AOMP have some beef with the British aristocracy. I am, of sorts, a spy.”

“Wow,” I said. “Well, I suppose it’s good that all the mystery isn’t just an idiosyncratic habit, then.”

“You’re in then?” said Wren.

“Yes,” I said.

* * *

“Regretting your decision, Verity?” asked Veronika. They had explained the plan; Wren with excitement, Veronika with calm precision. Well, precision where possible; there was a lot still vague about the plan. Wren had six months to a year of research to do, and Veronika reckoned that filling the crystal would take as long.

“No,” I said. “Maybe a little overwhelmed. But, it should teach the bastards a lesson.”

Wren clasped my hand.

“Well, my two beauties,” said Veronika. “Why don’t we all go to my bedroom, and celebrate our alliance?”

I looked at Wren; she seemed keen. “Will our dolls be alright?” I said, anxiously looking for some way out of doing what I wanted to do.

Veronika waved open a scrying orb; it showed Enoki and Sophie lying on the bed. Sophie was licking Enoki’s tiny dollcock, and Enoki was applying its tongue to Sophie’s pussy.

“Looks like they’re fine,” said Wren. “Can we?”

“Well…” I said.

“If it helps,” said Veronika. “This is what I am picturing: I will be in command, of course. Verity will be my loyal enforcer.” She adjusted my collar. “Strong and brutal. And Wren,” she continued, cupping Wren’s chin, “Poor Wren will be our desperate subject.”

I saw how excited Wren was; eyes shining in the dimness. That made me excited too.

“Aren’t you tired?” I asked Veronika. 

“Stop delaying,” said Veronika. “I am a powerful witch; tiredness is not a problem. And anyway, I will largely be supervising. An answer, please; are you coming to my room?”

Wren clung onto my arm, bouncing slightly. “Yes,” I said.

* * *

Veronika’s bedroom was impressive, of course. All pale wood and bright minimalism. Huge floor to ceiling windows, showing only inky blackness. A huge bed, four posts, with white sheets and black curtains. A small desk and chair stood to one side, a wardrobe and trunk/ottoman to the other.

Veronika perched on the bed.

“First, we all consent, correct?” she said, pulling off her shoes. Wren and I both agreed. “I tend to use the safeword porridge, if that’s acceptable?”

Again, we agreed. There was—for me at least—a streak of nervousness 

“Lastly, Wren, do you intend to wear that dress again? Is it important that it survives?” 

“No,” squeaked Wren.

“Good,” said Veronika. “Shall we start then? Verity, rip her dress off.”

“Um, but—” I began, but Veronika was on her feet all of a sudden.

“Verity,” she said, a hand shooting out and grabbing the collar of my shirt. “Remember your role. You are my enforcer; the unthinking executor of my will. The handsome brute. You obey my orders; not worry about them. Wren understands; any overstepping will be my fault.”

She pulled forward and kissed me roughly on the mouth. “Do you understand, brute?”

“Yes,” I said, “Er, ma’am.” 

I felt a lot of relief, the source of which I didn’t think about too closely.

“Good,” said Veronika. She maneuvered Wren in front of me. “And we don’t need to check that our wench is okay.” She stoked Wren’s cheek. “She doesn’t get a choice. Now, brute, rip her dress off.”

I mean, that was easier said than done. There were layers, and some of the seams were solid. Honestly, I used the zip for most of it, but I tore the dress off with a convincing simulation of brutality.

Wren shivered with silent enthusiasm. 

“Her underwear as well,” instructed Veronika. 

I knew this was Wren’s favourite set, so I was careful to remove her bra and panties undamaged. Wren covered herself; an arm covering her breasts, the other at her cock.

“Hold her arms out, brute,” instructed Veronika. I grabbed Wren’s wrists and held her arms out. I looked down at her body, over one shoulder; she was gorgeous, curved and lovely.

“Mmm,” said Veronika, leaning forward on the bed. “What have we here?” She extended a hand and caressed Wren’s hard witchcock. “Is she hard? Brute, feel this.”

I let go of one of Wren’s wrists and felt her cock. I followed Veronika’s lead; caressing, feeling our fingers slide over one another. Wren leaned back, into me, raising her chin and closing her eyes.

“Hard and getting harder, ma’am,” I said.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, brute,” said Veronika, still stroking the witchcock, “but I don’t think I gave permission for this wench to become hard.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh dear,” said Veronika, bending forward to kiss the witchcock on its tip. “Then she will have to be punished. Put her hands behind her back.”

I moved my hands to catch her wrists again, holding them behind her back. Veronika leaned back. Wren whimpered at the removal of stimulation.

Veronika slowly removed her leggings. “But what punishment? Well, the wench should be tied up first. Leave my brute free to use her hands.”

She jumped off the bed and strode over to the ottoman.

“Have her face you, brute,” Veronika said. “Play with her breasts for a bit. Be as rough as you like.” 

Veronika grabbed Wren’s wrists and started binding them. I kneaded her breasts in the way I knew she liked, catching and pinching the nipple every so often.  

Veronika bound Wren’s hands together very neatly, coils of red rope halfway up her forearms.

“Good,” said Veronika, “take her over to the desk.”

In retrospect, Veronika probably meant that I should lead Wren over to the desk, but I flung her over my shoulder and carried her the short distance instead.

Veronika laughed. She walked over, and straightened Wren up, before grabbing her chin.

“See how strong my brute is?” she said. “If I told her to, she could crush you into nothingness. Have you realised how terrible your position is? Your only hope is that we find you entertaining.”

She positioned Wren in front of the desk, and sat on the desk, playing with Wren’s nipples.

“What a shame, wench,” said Veronika. “The brute and I have got your nipples nice and hard, and now we won’t be able to play with them for a while.”

She leaned back across the desk and opened a drawer. “Don’t worry though,” she said, “these nipple clamps will make sure you don’t forget them.”

I watched as Wren shivered and gasped, as Veronika clipped them on.

“Brute, we don’t want our wench kicking us, when we make her writhe,” said Veronika. “Fetch the spreader bar from the trunk.”

The trunk was full of stuff that I either knew, and was embarrassed by, or didn’t know, and was extremely embarrassed by. Although ninety percent sure, I held up the spreader bar so that Veronika could nod.

I hurried back and used my knee to spread Wren’s legs apart. I crouched and fastened each cuff to one ankle. While there, I couldn’t help but to reach though, and give Wren’s lovely witchcock a quick stroke. She moaned, trying to lean into it, but I’d already stopped. 

“Ah, wench, have you forgotten whose pleasure you’re here for?” said Veronika. 

She spun around, and stood up, off the desk. “Brute, bend her over the desk.”

I did so, lowering her head, tits and upper tummy onto the leather inlaid top. The clamps made a soft sound as they hit the surface. Veronika sat down, and grabbed a bunch of Wren’s hair, pulling her head to the side. “Now, wench, the brute is going to punish you,” Veronika said. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” said Wren. She was quivering again.

“Good girl, you may suck on my fingers,” Veronika said, sticking a couple of fingers in Wren’s mouth. “Brute, pummel the wench’s ass. You can choose the implement; flogger, crop, paddle, etc.”

“I’ll just use my hand, ma’am,” I said.

“Ooh, wench, do you hear that?” said Veronika. “I think my brute has a soft spot for you. But don’t worry, I won’t let her go easy on you. I’ll make sure you’re spanked long and hard.”

Wren mumbled something into Veronika’s fingers.

“Continue, brute,” commanded Veronika.

I carefully lined up, and spanked her buttock, moderately hard. Was I a bad person that I enjoyed seeing her lovely arse ripple with the blow? That I liked the colour that bloomed on her cheek. That I loved her gasps—muffled by fingers, this time. 

“Again, brute,” said Veronika. “Keep going till I’m bored.”

I brought my hand down again, and again, losing myself in the rhythm of the action.

When Veronika told me to stop, Wren’s arse was bright red, and my hand wasn’t much better. I took a step back and mopped my brow.

“Hard work, isn’t it, brute?” Veronika said. “Why don’t you get undressed?”

I nodded and began disrobing.

Veronika leaned close to Wren, taking her fingers from her mouth. “Oh, you’re missing this, wench. The brute is very handsome naked; quadriceps, biceps, abs. Sheets of pure muscle, ready to wreck you.”

Veronika leaned back. “Maybe I should bring her round here, where you can see her, and fuck her. Would you be jealous, wench?”

Wren nodded. Veronika laughed. “Brute, is the wench’s ass nice and red?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Veronika opened a desk drawer, and chucked a small box and a plastic bottle across the tabletop. 

“Then plug her up, brute,” said Veronika. “We’ll use her ass later.”

The box contained a buttplug; I used plenty of lube on it, and on Wren’s butthole. I teased it, playing the plug around the edge, enjoying her gasps. When she’d relaxed enough, I plunged it in, feeling her body shake.

“Tell me, brute,” said Veronika, “is she still hard?”

I groped under her, and ran my reddened hand along the length of her cock.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Tut tut,” said Veronika. “Brute, come here.”

I walked around the desk; Veronika stood. “Take my dress off,” she said, raising her arms. I lifted the chainmail over her head; it was not actual chainmail, I realised belatedly, but made of circles of silver thread, sewn together. I let it cascade to the floor. Mrs Marlinspike was breathtaking naked; not gorgeous like Wren, warm and welcoming, but alien, powerful, and terrifyingly sexual. She stood back, making sure I could see her breasts—captivating tattoos around each areola—and her curved witchcock—erect, tattoos around its hairless base.

I glanced at Wren; she was looking too, eyes flicking between both of us. She had a small puddle of drool by her mouth, where she had been sucking on fingers. She looked so sexy, so helpless, like that; my cunt, my clit, ached.

“Brute, eyes on me,” said Veronika. “That wench doesn’t deserve you looking at her. Kiss my breasts.”

I bent immediately and kissed them, a smattering of solemn kisses. “Mmm,” said Veronika. “Thank you, brute.”

She stepped closer, and kissed my mouth, hard; a nip of teeth as she pulled away. Her cool hands were around me, smoothing my back, feeling my arse. “Brute, the wench’s hardness offends me. You will go—take the chair, and your muscular hands—and milk her, wring her out, so that she is a sopping mess. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“But,” said Veronika, pushing me back, with a hand on my chest. “Only if I say so. Only if this wench, this slut, pleases me with her mouth.” She caressed my breast. “Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She turned towards Wren, grabbing her hair again, and using her other hand to guide the head of her witchcock. Wren’s mouth was open; Veronika slid in, and allowed Wren to adjust slightly, before she started making short thrusts. I could see Wren’s tongue working, hear the messy breaths, gulps and gurgles, half chokes. To see her sucking, desperately, on Mrs Marlinspike’s witchcock made me so aroused I could barely stand it.

“Don’t worry, brute,” said Veronika, breathlessly. “You’ll get your turn. We will fuck this slut to exhaustion.” And she nodded and signalled at me.

I sat by Wren’s arse, and bent to reach her witchcock. I knew how Wren liked to masturbate; I grasped her cock with both hands and began to manipulate, sliding one hand toward the glans, and the other towards the base. I felt Wren’s body quiver, fancied I heard a groan amongst the other noises. The indescribable tension in her cock told me it would not take long. I kept going, repeating the motion, getting faster.

Veronika gave a quiet moan, and Wren’s mouth noises increased, swallowing and choking as she came into her mouth. A small pool joined the drool. Shortly thereafter, Wren orgasmed too, splattering hands, desk and floor.

Veronika pulled her cock out of Wren’s mouth, and allowed a bare minute for recovery.

“Brute, pull her upright,” instructed Veronika. 

I gently pulled her upright, careful of her spanked and plugged arse. I held her against me, as she seemed to have little strength in her legs. Plus, I wanted to feel her body trembling against mine.

Veronika walked around the desk. She put out a hand and caressed Wren’s detumesced witchcock.

“Well done, wench,” she said. “No unauthorised hardness.”

She continued to stroke the cock. “But now I give you permission,” she said.

There was, perhaps, a very slight enlargement, maybe. 

“No?” said Veronika. “But I command it.”

I felt the crackle of magic, as Veronika moved her hands. Circles of green energy buzzed along Wren’s witchcock; it engorged and stiffened rapidly.

“There you are,” said Veronika. “Brute, take her to the bed and have your way with her.”

I picked her up in an awkward princess carry (princesses did not usually wear spacer bars) and deposited her on the bed. 

“Are you alright?” I whispered. 

“Mmm,” she murmured, nodding.

“Okay, because I’m—” I started.

“Wren, do you remember the safeword?” interrupted Veronika.

“Mhm, yes,” she said. “It’s good. Green. Green. Green.”

That was from our sessions, but I guess the meaning must have been clear enough. 

“Go on, brute,” said Veronika, “Neither she nor you will appreciate any holding back.” 

I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself above Wren, knees on each side of her. I was soaking wet, and I slid onto her magically erect witchcock without preamble. She arched slightly, but she was too restrained and tired and weighted down to move much. Any ideas I had of careful, elegant lovemaking went out of the window. I bounced up and down on her cock more like it was a dildo than a body part. I felt bad about that, until I glanced at her half-lidded eyes, gazing at me, smiling, juices drying on her face. Veronika sat on the edge of the bed, watching us, idly tugging at her cock.

My first orgasm was messy, chaotic; like rolling thunder, as easily twelve as it was one. Intense, almost painful sensations, landing without warning or rhythm. I gasped and moaned.

I gathered myself, staying on her, the cock still hard inside me. With one hand, I grabbed a breast, making her gasp. I moved my fingers up to the nipple clamp, playing with it, delighting in Wren’s tiny moans. I took the clamp off, dropping it by the side of the bed, and Wren groaned again as blood flowed back to the nipple. I roughly massaged the breast, and then went to the other nipple, repeating the process. Wren’s moaning and lip-biting started something in me, and I began rocking myself to a more measured second (well, ‘second’) orgasm.

“Don’t tire yourself out, my brute,” said Veronika, softly, caressing my shoulder. “The night is young, and the spell is potent. Why don’t you kiss her?”

I carefully lowered myself to kiss her, aware of how our bodies were interlocked. It was a hard kiss, tongues wrestling.

I felt Veronika reach under Wren’s waist, dragging through a doubled-up piece of rope. She tied it around me as well, clinching Wren and I together. Then she rolled us over, so that Wren was on top of me. I straightened her up.

“Still nice and hard, wench?” Veronika whispered. “I know you are. Don’t worry about being tired; the brute and I will use you, anyway.”

She wiggled the buttplug, maneuvering it until it popped free. She squirted lube again. Veronika climbed on top of both of us, guiding her witchcock towards Wren’s butt. She went carefully, inch by inch, Wren softly moaning into my chest. 

Veronika began to thrust; I got the echo of the movement, relayed through Wren’s cock. I kissed the top of Wren’s head, let my gasps join with hers, and thought of the crystal filling below.