Confessions Of A Fashion Witch
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The Witch free porn video
The Witch, Solana
One - The Inquisitor
Solana stumbled across the Town Square, her wrists tightly bound behind herback with thick rope. It was autumn, but she was barefoot, her feet achingwith cold, her naked arms coarse with goosebumps. In her mouth was a gag, aleather ball between her teeth, secured with a leather strap. H er lips formed a seal around its circumference, her jaws ached.
Three guards. Two held her arms: the Sergeant followed. They hurried theirfrightened prisoner towards the thirteen steps that rose to the malevolentJustice H all. Grey stone columns, iron fittings in which unlit torches rested,a black metal gibbet suspended above, the off-white of old bone s w ithin itsbars.
Solana wore nothing but a lace-up bodice and skirt. H er breasts, plumpedby the corset, were all but bared to the November chill. The bodice's slimstraps had slipped part-way down her bare muscled arms. H er skirt s w eretorn, muddy. H er hair was loose, a thick black mane tumbling to her shoulder-blades,partially obscuring her face.
H alf African by birth, her father descended from black slave s, her motherSpanish, Solana had inherited the beauty of mixed races. The slender nose andrich, curly black hair of her mother, the full cheekbones, proud lips and perfectteeth of her father. H er eye s w ere dark brown, lashes long, her browsbold. H er body was strong, lithe, muscular, her skin smooth, the colour ofcoffee. A life tending animals on her mother's small farm half a day from Pamplonahad blessed her with good health. But now her slim finger s w ere blue withstrangled circulation, the coarse rope s w earing ruts in her wrists, tightlyconfining her hands behind her back. H er feet were bruised from her journeythrough the city streets.
They reached Justice H all. Solana would have pleaded to turn back, but forthe gag. H er feet found the ascent, and she helplessly did as the guardsbade, entering the cavernous atrium. Perhaps a hundred people stood within,most queuing to have petty grievances settled. But all moved aside for thebeautiful prisoner and her armoured escort. A few pitied her: most simplyfelt relief that it was her, and not themselves, being led inside.
The four stopped at the head of a queue. A Clerk, robed and sombre, regardedthe ragged girl. H e dipped his quill in ink, reached for a heavy leather-boundbook. Worn fingers leafed through thick pages, filled with the names of hundreds w ho had come thi s w ay before.
?Name?? The Clerk's voice came in a monotone, his disinterest plain.
?Solana Degas,? grunted the sergeant on his muted prisoner's behalf. Frombeneath the rim of his iron helmet, deep-set eye s w atched the quill scratchits path. ?She is accused of witchcraft.?
Solana tried to protest - stifled exclamations barely escaping the heavy leatherball that packed her mouth. H er dark eyes burned with rage as the Clerk wrote.H ow was it that such an injustice could be committed before her? She knewonly too well her accuser - Catalina Lacrosse, her only rival in beauty, theblonde, lithe vixen from the nearby village. Catalina, who had been jiltedin her efforts to be crowned H arvest Princess. To Solana, it had been a frivolousand childish celebration, but accepting the crown had pleased her fellow villagersand satisfied tradition, so she had borne the formalitie s w ith grace.
But Catalina, jealous, had began causing trouble for her rival. Culminatingin this - Solana's arrest in her own mother's kitchen, dragged bound into thecold and brought here, to Pamplona, and the foreboding Justice H all.
The Clerk finished writing. H e looked briefly at Solana. ? H ave her examined.?
The guards propelled her forward, through a second chamber, finally haltingoutside tall oak doors, trimmed in brass, with elegant gargoyles as knockers,four guards outside. The Sergeant pounded once with his gauntlet, and the doorwas opened from within.
Solana's expression resembled one agape with wonder, though her mouth wasmerely held wide by the leather gag. They were in a cavernous hall. At thefar end, tall stained glas s w indows splashed coloured light across a mosaicfloor. Perhaps a dozen guards stood silently at posts along the walls. A brazierglowed sullenly in a far corner. Directly ahead, on a raised podium, threestern-looking men sat at a huge oak table. All wore the robes of Clergy. Apparentlythey had been in discussion, but all three now looked up.
A figure scurried to meet the four newcomers. A scribe in his forties, ferret-likein appearance and manner. H e looked openly at Solana, his eyes taking in hershapely form, the lush tangle of her hair, her handsome face. Without breakingthe stare, he listened to the Sergeant's brief communication. Finally, as Solanawas brought within a dozen paces of the high table, the scribe turned to hissuperiors.
?Your H onours, the prisoner is Solana Degas, an accused witch. She comesthis day from Sanguesa, where she live s w ith her mother.?
The central of the three figures glowered at the woman before him. Solana'sracing mind identified him as the Inquisitor, a deeply religious man, whoserole was seeking the truth from those accused of witchcraft or heresy. H e,she hoped, would be kind.
?Free her hands.?
Solana looked back over her own bare shoulder as one of the guard s w orkedthe rope at her wrists. The rope had shrunk with cold and damp, and it tooka time to loosen it, but eventually she was released, and massaged deeply-groovedwrists gratefully.
?Now strip her.?
Solana's eyes bugged over her gag. Momentarily stunned, she failed to reactas one of the guards grasped her skirt and tugged. At once, she fought back,swiping at him, but the Sergeant caught her arms. ?Steady, there, lass!?
Mute, Solana struggled, but the soldiers disrobed her quickly, then steppedaway, clutching their trophies proudly. Solana cupped her hands over her breasts,more anxious to conceal her vulnerability than her nudity.
But the Inquisitor would have none of it. ?Place your hands upon your head!?
?Do it!? The Sergeant butted Solana's shoulder. Unable to speak for herself,she reluctantly complied, feeling her nipples tighten in the chill. She closedher eyes as the three Clergymen leaned forward.
They regarded a body truly spectacular. Five-seven in height, slim, beautiful.Skin flawless. An oval face swathed by the rich black of her hair. H er breasts w ere high, plump, topped by black-brown nipples. H er belly was shaped bymuscle, quartered by defined gullies centred on a petite navel, smooth skinlike velvet. Lower, her slender hip s w ere the frame for a tidy triangle oftight black hair. H er leg s w ere long, shapely, terminating in dainty feet,high arches, perfect toes slightly curled on the cold tile floor. Under herlifted arms, the black hair was fine and soft.
?What is that?? The Clergyman on the Inquisitor's right pointed.
Solana flinched as the guard grasped the fine gold chain about her throat. ?Ibelieve it is an adornment of some kind, your H onour.?
? H uh.? The Clergyman sat back. ?Remove it. Then burn her clothes.?
Solana's heart sank as she was stripped of her jewellery; the necklace, alongwith the rags that had been her clothing, were carried from the room in thearms of a guard.
?Sergeant, bind her hands, then remove her gag.? The Inquisitor spoke. ?Iwish to question her.?
?Aye, your H onour.?
Now was not the time to resist. Solana lowered her arms, and one of the guardsgrasped her wrists, holding them behind her back while his comrade twistedthe rope tightly around-and-between, knotting it well, securing her. She flexedher fingers against the bondage, tugging experimentally, but her wrists maya s w ell have been locked in stone.
Now, the Sergeant loosened the buckles of her gag. The oversized leather ballwas extracted carefully from between her teeth. Solana slowly closed jaws strainedby the cruel gag. She licked her dry lip s w ith a numb tongue.
?Your name is Solana Degas??
Solana straightened. Though she was naked, standing in full view of a dozenmen, with hands bound behind her back, she kept her composure, dignity shiningfrom her brown eyes. ?It is.?
?Your age??
?I am twenty-seven years, your H onour.? H er voice was strong, confident..
?And not married??
?I have not yet found a man worthy.?
Amusement echoed around the hall. The Inquisitor seemed less inclined to laugh. ?Andwhat say you to the charge of witchcraft??
Solana fixed him with cool eyes. ?I say it is a lie, your H onour. I am innocent.?
? H m.? The Inquisitor sat back. ?The Court shall investigate further. Take heraway.?
H ands still bound, Solana was led to another door. It opened onto a steepstairwell, and they descended to a small guardroom. There, several soldierssat idle. Their command, a weathered Jailer in his forties, met the newcomers w ith barely a glance.
Solana lost count of the doors that opened and closed to the keys on the Jailer'sbelt. The five of them descended countless narrow stairways, marched betweenwet and slimy walls. Guttering, oily torches lit claustrophobic passagewayslined with heavy, windowless doors. It stank of human waste. Cries andgroans echoed eerily from distant rooms of torment.
Did the guards not feel anything? Solana looked to each in turn, but theyseemed distracted, perhaps intent on leaving this hell-below-ground, this tight,intestinal nightmare of cells. The Jailer finally stopped alongside adoor, unlocked it, pushed it open.
Solana nearly choked. Black, putrid, the cell was ten feet square, stone wallsand a ten-foot ceiling. There was no bed, no pot, no source of water or light.Only a huge iron ring set four feet from the floor, in the rear wall. Fromit, on short, thick chains, dangled two heavy iron manacles, rough with age,chipped with years of use.
?What is this place?? she demanded in horror.
?This i s w here you stay,? the Sergeant sneered. ?You will quickly becomeused to it!?
?Are you mad?? Solana looked wildly about as her wrist s w ere again untied.The moment she was freed, she tried to bolt, dodging from the grip of firstone guard, then the other. There were shouts of alarm; Solana was fasterand stronger than any expected, but as she threw herself towards the open door,the Jailer blocked her way, grasping her shoulders, flinging her backwards.With a shriek, she tumbled, naked, to the cell floor.
?Restrain her!? the Jailer bellowed.
Solana tried to struggle up again, but this time the two soldiers seized herarms, the sergeant catching her right leg, and she was dumped against the rearwall of the cell. With her back to the stone, they lifted her hands over herhead to the open manacles. Solana fought in rage and disbelief as the heavyshackle s w ere clamped about her wrists. The Jailer quickly locked each witha key. The cold, hard iron snugly enclosed each wrist, trapping her hands.She felt vulnerable, exposed, her breasts and belly, loins and underarmsnaked to her captors.
?Stupid wench!? The Sergeant's boot thudded hard into Solana's unprotectedribs. She shrieked, jack-knifing and wrenching her hands in the manacles, thenhalf-slumped, gasping, unable to lower her arms and hug herself against thepain. On the Sergeant's command, all four men turned to leave.
?Wait - please!? Solana shouted breathlessly after them, but the wooden doorboomed shut. Despite the pain in her side, she found her feet, twisting toface the wall, and jerked against her restraints. But the shackles jarred painfullyon her wrist-bones, not relinquishing their hold for a moment.
The cell door's lock was turned, a restraining bar clanked home.
Solana gave a wail of despair. ?Listen to me! I am innocent!? She closed herfists, tugged again and again on her chains, twisting her hands, trying everythingin her power to free herself. She braced a bare foot against the walland hauled with all of her might, her muscles taut. H er teeth were grittedin rage and determination. ?You bastards! Set me free!?
Solana was strong, but the chains did not so much as shift. Regardless, shefought their restraint for almost an hour, until her body shone with sweatand her breasts heaved. At last, exhausted, sobbing in frustration, she droppedto the wet floor, letting the chains pull her arms over her head again, withher naked back against the wall.
Nausea and weakness swelled from the pit of her belly. H er will was strong,her face rarely giving way to grief, but now it overwhelmed her, and she burstinto tears, her head against one lifted arm, hands drooping from the metalcuffs. The shackles' cold bite seemed to burn into her wrists, a bitter reminderthat she was now a captive, a prisoner, deep in the dungeons of Justice H all.
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