Back List Blast: The Witches of Gloucester (#FFF #pnr #lesfic #excerpt)

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One lazy Saturday in June, Beryl and Marguerite relaxed in Beryl’s bedroom, which balanced over the water on barnacle-encrusted pilings. Late afternoon sun slanted in through the wide open window. The pungency of the cove at low tide mingled with a hint of primroses from Beryl’s garden. But the mud flats outside were not wholly responsible for the ocean scent hanging in the air.

Beryl licked a salty line across Marguerite’s round belly and up to her dusky breasts. The black-haired woman shivered and threaded her fingers into Beryl’s copper curls, forcing that active mouth onto a nipple. Though they’d been in bed since noon, neither was totally sated. They never were. Inexhaustible libido is one of the defining attributes of a witch.

Marguerite moaned as her partner sucked with vigor at her swollen teat. “Yes, my jewel, that’s lovely. Exactly right...” She didn’t really need to say anything – each knew every nuance of the other’s responses – but she understood how the praise would stir her lover to more energetic attentions. Sure enough, Beryl let her teeth graze the sensitive nub, then nipped hard enough to wake a spike of pain that drove deep into Marguerite’s cunt, transforming itself into the most exquisite pleasure on the way.

Arching her back, she offered more of her breast and Beryl took it, pulling the ripe flesh into her mouth and drenching it in warm saliva. Marguerite bent a knee, aiming her thigh at the Beryl’s juicy cleft. With a choked cry, Beryl ground her crotch against the smooth limb, meanwhile ramping up the suction until Marguerite wondered if she could bear the intensity.

Her face buried in Marguerite’s ample chest, Beryl stabbed her fingers down in a blind search for her lover’s cunt. Through luck or experience, she found her target at first attempt, parting Marguerite’s wiry fur and sinking three digits into luscious wetness.

The rude invasion sent a pre-orgasmic shudder up Marguerite’s spine and wrenched a hoarse cry from her throat. “Oh no you don’t, you minx! You’re going to come for me this time.” Beryl didn’t seem to object; she rocked back and forth against the thigh pressed between hers, struggling for enough friction to push her over the edge. At the same time, she didn’t stop frigging Marguerite, though she let the current nipple pop out of her mouth and captured the other.

It didn’t take long – it never did – before they convulsed in a shared climax. The sun brightened for an instant. The scent of roses grew thick and heady. As their breathing slowed and they fell backwards on the bed to let the air cool their sweat-streaked skin, the wild cry of a gull floated in on the salt-tinged breeze.

Fingertips brushing, they lay together in companionable silence. Marguerite recovered first.

“There’s a new girl in town.”

“I know.” Beryl stretched her white arms over her head, to their maximum extent, then pulled herself up into a sit, legs crossed Indian style. A rich fragrance of pussy rose from between her parted thighs. “She stopped at the store yesterday, looking for titles about colonial-period Salem.”

“I’m sure you were very helpful.” Rolling onto her side and propping her chin up on her palm, Marguerite grinned at her redheaded partner.

“I didn’t dare get close. She was broadcasting sexual energy in every direction – pulsing like some hunk of radioactive matter. I swear, I nearly came, standing twenty feet away. Amazing!”

“Yes – I’ve been aware of her aura for the last few days. But I haven’t actually seen her.”

Beryl leaned forward for a quick kiss. Marguerite fought the urge to pull that pale, compact body down on top of her own. Not that Beryl would mind, of course. In fact, the little ginger cat took advantage of their closeness to tweak one of Marguerite’s still throbbing nipples, before pulling back.

“You’ll appreciate her,” Beryl added. “She’s just your type.”

“You mean, loud and bratty, like you?” Marguerite dodged Beryl’s flying fist. “No, seriously – what’s she like?”

“Young. Ethereal. Full of light. Wait, I’ll show you.” The witch padded on bare feet over to the wooden sea chest across the room to pull out a length of navy blue cloth printed with yellow-gold stars. She spread it over the braided rug that took up most of the floor. “Come. Sit with me.”

While Marguerite settled herself cross-legged upon the starry throw, Beryl retrieved a half-melted sapphire-blue candle from a shelf above the bed. She arranged it upon the cloth between them, then passed her cupped palm over the charred wick. “Illumine,” she declaimed.

The candle spontaneously ignited. At the same time, the afternoon dimmed. Sudden dusk descended. The blue-edged flame glowed, but did not dispel the gathered shadows.

“Look into the fire,” Beryl instructed.

Marguerite tended to use crystals or mirrors for divination. It took a few moments for her to discern the forms moving in the flickering brightness. As she focused her attention, the image grew more distinct.

A diminutive young woman even paler than Beryl sat reading at an old dinette table. Straight silver-blond hair cascaded down her back, almost to her waist. Her black tank top showed off a surprisingly deep cleavage for someone with such a petite frame, while her brief shorts clung to what looked like a heart-shaped ass.