5. ITALIA/RUTHENIA 15th Century #11
The Romani witch gently laid Damek upon the forest floor on a large patch of soft grass, his brawny back and plump furry backside cushioned by the blades.
This reminds me of my first time with Aeneas in éire, when I made love to him—to Aodhán, in the forest by the lake of the Goddess.
We were so happy that year together until—no, I will not dwell on it.
I have only myself to blame. I must stay in the moment, though I swear I will not have my time with Damek end the same.
“Lift your legs,” the Romani witch requested.
Damek did as he was instructed.
The Romani witch knelt before his lover, positioning Damek’s legs on his shoulders, a set smaller than the Hutsul’s, less broad, yet entirely adequate for the upcoming erotic action.
Then, moistening his hands with copious amounts of spittle, he slicked Damek’s pink and puckered opening, gently placing one finger inside and moving it around. “Breathe, my love.”
Damek grunted, a slight look of pain appearing across his face. Soon enough, however, the grimace became a beaming smile as he welcomed the intense pleasure growing from a place inside himself he never expected to experience such sensations.
Having now put two fingers inside his lover, the Romani witch smirked. “That is the magical place within men that brings such immense joy, hidden well, but oh, so worth discovering, and once one has found it—! Well, I think you now know.”
“Yes—” Damek moaned, writhing in a state of euphoria.
The Romani witch took his time opening up his inexperienced lover to relax the muscles in the area, teasing his internal nub to heighten enjoyment before entering him.
“Why—uhhnnnn—why do you close your eyes, my love?” Damek asked, still squirming. “Why do you not—uhhnnnn—damn, that feels amazing! Why do you not look at me?”
“I am imagining myself sliding my cock deep inside you,” the Romani witch said, his eyes shut, his fingers slowly pulling out of Damek’s loosened hole. “And how perfect it will be to finally be connected in all ways. Are you ready?”
Damek nodded vigorously, the damp red fringe of his hair fluttering in the breeze.
Placing his throbbing cockhead at Damek’s slicked entrance, the Romani witch inhaled sharply and then slowly pushed inside. When he felt that special heat and tightness he always looked forward to, he was nearly brought to release again.
But he remained in control.
“Oh yes, my god, yes, uhhnnnn,” Damek cried out, his body responding to the Romani witch’s powerful movements. Each thrust ignited a fire within him that he could not resist—did not want to.
He never wanted it to end.
“Do not stop!” Damek pleaded. His stomach muscles tightened and contracted as he became drenched in sweat, his own perspiration joined by the moisture dripping from his lover’s flushed face.
The Romani witch panted, breathless and burning, as he gave himself fully to the only man—the only soul—with whom he could ever truly belong.
He poured out all his adoration and lust for Aeneas, emotions felt since they first declared their love for one another nearly fourteen hundred years ago, into Damek.
Those feelings were a fathomless ocean of trust, devotion, and desire.
While still fucking Damek, his hips flexing rhythmically, the Romani witch bent his torso back, straightening up to give his lover a full view of his slender, tightly muscled frame.
“So beautiful, so perfect,” Damek cooed.
And then he proceeded to grunt in torturous ecstasy as he began to stroke himself, all while focusing his gaze on the Romani witch, watching the man he adored making love to him.
“When you feel the urge overtaking you, cry out my name as you release inside of me, my love, giving me a part of you to carry within me.”
The Romani witch laughed playfully and slapped Damek’s ass cheek. “Such a wicked tongue! I like it, and I am close.”
The sexual energy between the two men intensified swiftly, each sensual leer and grip of flesh infused with a sense of urgency, a barely controlled need to be and stay connected; their joint rapid breathing indicated that an exhilarating climax was approaching.
The euphoric tingling in the Romani witch’s groin intensified.
When the sensual pressure finally became overwhelming, he lost all self-control and surrendered to his release, shouting Damek’s name to the heavens.
The feeling of rapturous bliss surged through him, taking him on a journey of absolute ecstasy.
Knowing he was being filled by his lover, Damek’s head swirled; he felt himself succumbing to delirium, caught in a force of passion he had never prepared for and could hardly believe truly existed. It was a hundred times more intense than any of his self-pleasuring experiences.
He tried to focus his eyes on his lover’s contorted face, which looked both pained and delighted.
Still, all he could do was give himself over to the incomprehensible tingling inside himself, his anal area on fire with chills and impressions of touch he could not describe; a whole new level of pleasure had opened up to him.
Damek managed one last stroke of his rigid cock before his seed exploded, hitting his lover in the chest and landing on his own stomach. His eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head as dryness seized his gaping mouth.
Sexually spent, the Romani witch removed his cock from Damek’s opening, brought his legs down and then proceeded to collapse onto him.
Their gazes locked onto one another, each seeing into the other’s soul.
They existed in a perfect symphony of connection and contentment, engrossed in the magic of their love.
Everything felt perfect; the world around them faded away.
Deep within the darkest and most secluded part of the Temnyi Lis forest, not too far from where Damek and the Romani witch had just consummated their love, Baba Yaga sensed a disturbance in her domain, one powerful enough to breach the protective barriers around her hut.
That angered her.
She abruptly halted the intricate spell she was crafting, diverting her focus toward the disruption, one that felt both magical and spiritual.
Baba Yaga discerned what this intrusion was in just a few beats of her corrupt heart; it was the energy created from a moment of pure love, a true love —and it disgusted her. Still, it was a power she coveted.
When this energy was created by magic users, sorcerers, conjurers, wizards or witches—the pedigree of magic mattered not to her—the temptation to take it for herself was more than she could resist. Not that she ever felt the need to even try.
Baba Yaga always took what she wanted, and no mortal, enchanted or otherwise, had the power to defy her.
And the magic of others, especially those touched by pure love, empowered and rejuvenated her; she could live on it for years until the host had no more to give, dried up, and died.
The Cannibal Hag was immortal in the flesh, but her dark magic took its toll on her spirit, weakening her over time; all magic had a price.
Syphoning the mana of mystics was a welcome feast to restore her sorcerous strength.
Baba Yaga lived a solitary life; she had no coven, no friends, and no family.
Due to Hecate’s binding spell, she could not travel beyond the borders of Ruthenia, the land of her mortal birth, a reality she had accepted two millennia ago.
The Cannibal Hag’s single attempt to defy the goddess of witchcraft had led to the very internment forced upon her, one she could not escape.
Wherever Baba Yaga set her hut down, in whatever forest, that place became her home until she chose to move on. And the woods always had visitors.
Baba Yaga left some straying travellers alone as long as they treated the forest, her forest , with respect and stayed quiet.
This included children. Deep within her darkened soul, she loved her Motherland; for this reason, she never harmed a truly innocent person.
It was her only redeeming quality, not that the Cannibal Hag’s soul could ever be redeemed.
Now, the rude and aggressive interlopers?
The annoying folks who made too much damn noise in her forest?
Those ones she killed, skinned, and boiled the flesh and fat from their bones.
She ate some of their pieces while preserving others for dark spells and fiendish thaumaturgical experiments, especially the fat, an essential ingredient for flying.
The bones Baba Yaga collected formed a horrific fence that encircled her hut, each post adorned with the grinning, empty-eyed skull of a lost soul.
The gate, too, was a macabre masterpiece crafted from the very bones of her victims, but what truly set it apart was the lock—a grimacing mouth lined with sharp teeth, forever caught in the likeness of a man’s final scream before death.
The bolt was a skeletal hand, its bony fingers curled menacingly, ready to secure the entrance to her ghoulish dwelling.
No one who stumbled upon her hut would dare to enter unless they were addled, mad or seeking death, which she would gladly deliver unto them; that was the dark witch’s strident belief.
Occasionally, she would lower the mystical barrier that rendered her home—hut, yard, and fence—invisible just to see what The Fates might bring her way.
As for the spoiled, impudent, and mischievous children playing loudly in the woods—or better yet, lost and crying, bellowing for their mama, they were Baba Yaga’s favourites. Those she ate whole, cooked in her ever-blazing oven. Their bones were then added to the fence.
However, at this time, the magical barrier was not dispelled; it was functioning just as intended. The Cannibal Hag wanted nothing more than to capture the lovers, imprison them, and slowly consume their power, their very essence.