I can feel the climax in the room building. I can feel my own core clench in anticipation. I don't know these people. Heck, I can't even see their faces. But I can see the love, the devotion they all have for each other. It is such an intimate moment between them. I try to watch their faces but all the faces are blurry, even their voices aren’t completely clear, except the man on top.
Is this one of the women Maureen mentioned? White hair seems to match... A loud cry resonates around the room, the woman shuddering as her climax powers through her. The song of her cry milks the men of their orgasm too.
The three of them lay on either side of her while she cuddles in as the watcher gets up and walks away to come back with a cloth. He then proceeds to clean the woman, as she whimpers as he caresses her. He moves in close, they all move like a wave, like a dance they have all completed a hundred times.
My heart hurts, like it is being squeezed by a vice. I yearn for a relationship like the one before me, knowing that it isn't likely.
My eyes open, a light streaming in through our door that is swung open. Sitting up, I grasp the blanket to my chest, heart thundering in my ears. I see someone coming into the room, before I can open my mouth to call out a voice reaches my ears. "Hi, Viviana." I know that voice; I just heard it in my dream. My eyes flash up to the eyes I saw the day before, "It's time to get you out of here."
The End
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USA Today bestselling author M.M. Chabot is a former private investigator who lives off Starbucks and chocolate. If she isn’t working you will find her reading Kelly Armstrong and Penelope Ward or watching The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina or Bones.
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Bookbub
Cellblock Sorcery
Tiegan Clyne
Chapter One
My name is Kathleen Goode, which has got to be someone’s idea of a joke. I’m a witch, and the Brotherhood doesn’t care much for my kind.
They run everything around these parts. They’re the so-called moral authority of the world, the ones in charge, the ones who call the shots. The men who decided that we womenfolk need to be barefoot and pregnant and silent until spoken to.
Well, fuck that shit.
Oh, I play the part for a while. I keep my thoughts to myself. I go to the temple every morning and pretend to worship their judgmental god. I run a boarding house for single women, and I convince the Brothers that I’m a shepherdess for my wayward sisters, keeping their virtue intact until they find husbands and fulfill their destinies as women by becoming wives and mothers.
Yech. Still makes me throw up in my mouth a little when I say it like that.
Well, the local temple loves me. They think I’m just a little gem, and when the Brotherhood’s Temple Captain starts coming around, everybody thinks we’re the absolute image of propriety. We’re getting holy house calls, right? Only that’s not quite what’s happening.
My wayward girls? They’re all witches, and that boarding house is the way our coven sticks together, hiding in plain sight. We work our spells and make our potions in secret, undermining the Brotherhood and being just as subversive as we possibly can. Even better, when the men in the town are sleeping, their women sneak away to my house, and we do things that would make their husbands’ hair turn white. The proper ladies of the town all come flocking, and my sisters and I welcome them with open arms and open beds.
What can I say? Nobody knows how to make a woman cum like another woman.
A few men in town catch wind of their wives showing up, and those who we can’t silence, we convert. Our worship sessions in the basement get more fun with the addition of a little willing man meat.
It’s going so well.
Then the Temple Captain gets suspicious. When he comes around to snoop, I seduce him. He would lose everything if anybody found out, so I have major blackmail material. I think I have the bull by the horns.
I am so wrong.
The pious little idiot trots right back to the Temple, tells his Confessor and voluntarily goes to prison for the sins of the flesh. My girls run into the woods, and I stand my ground, making a scene so they have time to get away.
My trial is a local sensation. There are news cameras from the city, and people stand on the courthouse steps to jeer me when the constables drag me in for the show. I smile for the cameras, try to make sure they get my best angle, and ignore the hoots and hollers.
At trial, some of the men who converted to my coven testify against me. I had apparently used my witchy ways and potions and spells to turn them from the good. I guess some guys just can’t handle morning-after guilt.
One of our converts doesn’t testify against me, though. He actually tries to testify on my behalf, saying what a wonderful person I am and how much good I’ve done in the community with my tinctures and herbs. Bless his little pointed head. Corwin Jones is his name,
