Story: Witch Trapper

The Witch was close – but Klyin was patient, and he knew that patience would yield results.  It was growing dark, and he would make camp.

The snow had blessedly stopped falling before becoming more than a soft silting on the tough, scrappy grass, and in the boughs of the pine trees.  It was still cold, but Klyin was clad in thick furs, and besides, he had his personal witches to build camp for him.

He reached to his belt, and unhooked a trap.  It was a phallic wand of smooth, lacquered wood – undeniably cock-shaped, although a little larger and thicker than his own member.  He flicked it, and summoned the WoodWyfe.

She looked so cute when she appeared out of nowhere that he almost laughed.  She was sitting in an indignant pout, her flowing green hair spilling over a sulky, childish expression, forming a pleasing contrast with her nut-brown skin.  Her legs were spread to show her naked pussy, and her arms were crossed petulantly over her large breasts.

This one always liked to pretend that she wasn’t going to serve him.  She hated being trapped, and she hated him.  But she had no choice in the matter.  She was bound to the trap, and he was the trap’s master, and thus she would do as she was told.

“On your feet, slut,” he told her.  “Gather fuel for my fire.”

She stuck out her tongue – but she was already rising to her feet.  She made a cute, angry noise, and stamped her foot at him – but then turned, and was gone.  The WoodWyfe could move with unnatural speed in forested terrain, and was a skilled forager, and he knew she would have what he needed soon.

She was the thirty-third variety of Witch he had recorded in his journal.  The Trap Masters knew of over 130, in this part of the world alone, and there could be many more.  Klyin had made it his life’s work to find – and trap – as many of them as he could manage.

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No one knew why Witches were created – or why they sprang only from women – but the “how” of it was well documented.  When a woman’s first sexual experience was sufficiently intense – either positively or negatively – a portion of her soul was cut loose, and became a Witch.  It was thought that around one in ten women produced a Witch in this way – although it was hard to tell, as the new Witch rarely made its first manifestation close to the woman who had produced it, and they were not otherwise bonded to their origin in any way.

The nature of the sexual experience the girl had would affect the form of her Witch.  For instance, an orgasm born of deep romantic love and consent might produce a ShineMayd – a beautiful, generous creature highly sought after as a companion and partner.  If a girl fucked her own father, and enjoyed it, it might create a BaybeDoll – a sweet but simple creature, eager for attention and responsive to discipline.  Or a girl who had her first intercourse with a dog or wolf might create a PuppySlutt, a playful thing with dog-like ears and a tail.

Klyin’s WoodWyfe, he knew was the product of a woman who had been raped in a forest, and been impregnated by the rape.  They were relatively rare, and he was lucky to have trapped one.

Over time – decades – the essence of a Witch would eventually dissipate naturally, and it would drift away – unless it was trapped.  The nature of the traps reinforced and healed a Witch’s energy, granting it a kind of immortality.  To Klyin’s mind, it was doing a Witch a favour to trap it.

Under some circumstances, a Witch could “evolve” to a new – and usually more powerful – form.  A properly trained PuppySlutt could evolve into an aggressive BytchHunter, for example. Witch scholars were still only beginning to discover these potential forms.

Regardless of their origin, with very few exceptions Witches preferred to hide away from people, in the wilderness or in secret and abandoned places.  They always took the form of a beautiful woman – which never bore any resemblance to the woman they had spawned from – and they rarely chose to wear any clothes.  

There was some debate as to whether Witches were sentient.  Some considered them to be basically animals, pointing to their aversion to clothing, and their general inability to speak.  Most could say no more than a couple of words, which could be equated to the barking of a dog or the call of a bird.  

But Klyin had hunted, trapped and raped enough Witches to know better.  They had at least the intelligence and emotional complexity of a teen girl.  They could love, and hate, and be surprisingly cunning. He had even heard tales of some that could talk, like real women.  If Witches were animals, then all women were animals.  (Although he had heard some scholars make that argument too.)

The WoodWyfe returned, with her arms full of loose, dry wood. 

“Good cunt,” smiled Klyin.  “Who’s a good little fucktoy?  Put the wood there, in the firepit I made.”

The WoodWyfe’s face went red with anger and humiliation, but she did as she was told.  

Disrespect was the key to training a WoodWyfe.  They wouldn’t respond to politeness or respect.  In fact, they would only grow more aloof, the longer you were nice to them, until eventually they would break the trap and escape you – and once free, they could be genuinely dangerous.  

A skilled trainer would instead constantly demean and degrade them, reminding them constantly of their helplessness, their inferiority, and their sexual attributes.  The more the WoodWyfe blushed, the more she hated her trainer, the more she would paradoxically become reliant on him, and even develop affection for him.  

“Now, be a good fuckhole and set up my tent,” instructed Klyin.  The WoodWyfe had no particular talent for such a thing, but she would do it to a satisfactory standard.

As she set about her task, Klyin took a second trap off his belt.  This one was made of pumice – though still shaped like a dildo.  He flicked it to summon the FyreFaery – a beautiful, petite girl with flaming red hair.  He nodded at the firepit, and she obediently summoned a magical flame to light it.  Then he flicked the trap again, and dismissed her.

He took a third trap from his collection.  This one was made of a kind of plastic.  He shook it, and summoned the CookBitch.

She was buxom, with full hips and generous breasts.  Her long brown hair appeared elegantly styled, and her red lips had the suggestion of lipstick.  (These were not the work of hairdressing and makeup, but rather natural traits of her species of Witch.)

A CookBitch was created when a feminist’s first intense sexual experience came from being raped by her husband.  Some communities had taken to deliberately arranging this circumstance, because CookBitches were highly valued for their magical ability to create a delicious meal from any ingredients – including ones that normally may not be edible.

CookBitches generally hated being put to their core use.  They retained something of their originator’s feminism, and seemed to despise the idea of their place being in the kitchen.  And yet, once trapped, they would obey.

He told this one to get to work on his dinner, and watched as she scurried around collecting rocks and pinecones that would magically become delicious meats and berries once she applied her magic to them.

Later, he would spank her cunt and tits, and then rape her.  This was fun on its own merits, of course – CookBitches struggled wonderfully when they were raped, and their cunts were deliciously tight – but a regular program of discipline and rape could cause a CookBitch to evolve into a BreedSlave – one of a very small number of Witch species which could be impregnated, and used to produce new Witches without any human origin.  There were Witch variants that had only ever been observed as the result of breeding of this sort.

Raping Witches was good for them, anyway.  For whatever reason, human semen fortified the spiritual energies of a Witch.  The more cum that was discharged into them, the stronger their magical powers became.  If a trainer wished to see his Witches “level up”, it was important to ejaculate into them as often as possible, no matter how much they might struggle.

The WoodWyfe finished setting his tent, and he dismissed it, back to the trap.  Shortly afterwards, the CookBitch presented him with his dinner.  He motioned for her to kneel before him and suckle on his cock as he ate.  She was shivering a little and had goosebumps on her pale skin, but it didn’t bother him.  Witches could experience the elements, and feel hot or cold, but they were incapable of being harmed by them in any permanent way.  In a worst case scenario, if the conditions became completely intolerable, the CookBitch’s essence would be automatically drawn back into his trap to recover.

He ate his food slowly, then set the plate down, and just concentrated on enjoying the CookBitch’s mouth.  He wouldn’t cum yet – he might still need his erection tonight – but he could happily let her edge him with her talented tongue.

Time passed.  The dark sky threatened to snow again.

And then he saw it – something moving.

He slapped the CookBitch off his dick, and then shook her trap to dismiss her, as he stared out into the dark trees.

Yes – there it was.  

An IceQueen – a Witch of snow and cold.  They were curious things, and he knew if he simply waited in its territory for long enough, there was a chance it would come to investigate him, against its better judgement.

He put his hand on the pumice trap, and paused for a moment, watching.

She was small – only a little over five feet – and petite.  She had long blonde hair twisted into a braid, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.  He felt his dick throb at the thought of owning her.

He did not dare let her escape.  He flicked the pumice wand to summon the FyreFaery.

“Snare her,” he commanded, when she appeared.

The FyreFaery was the best trained of his Witches.  She was completely obedient – and had even come to think she loved him.  FyreFaeries were easily corruptible – it was relatively easy to train them in obscene new fetishes and kinks.  In Klyin’s case, he had trained his FyreFaery to enjoy raping other Witches, and watching him rape them.  She loved nothing better than seeing her fellow Witches trapped and raped.

As soon as she heard Klyin’s command, the FyreFaery threw out her hand, and rings of magical fire appeared around the IceQueen, snaring her in place.

“Good girl,” said Klyin approvingly – eliciting a blush from the red-haired Witch – and he immediately began running across the snow towards his target.

But the IceQueen was not so easily caught.  She gave a small squeak, and the air around her solidified into slushy snow – which immediately fell through the fiery rings, dousing them.  And as soon as they were gone, the IceQueen was running, attempting to vanish into the forest.

She was fast.  “Chase,” said Klyin to his FyreFaery – but she would be no faster than he would.  He heard him start running behind her, but she wouldn’t catch the rogue Witch.

He had no choice.  He grabbed the wooden trap, and summoned the WoodWyfe again.

She appeared standing, still pouting, still sulking.

“No time for that,” he said.  “Catch the IceQueen for me, and I’ll be nice to you for a week.  I swear on the trap.”

It would be a binding promise – and a dangerous one.  A week of respecting the green-haired cunt would undo much of her training, and leave her dangerously close to escape.  But he wanted that pretty little IceQueen.

She had no choice to obey him regardless – but if the sulky bitch didn’t want to help, then her actions would be inefficient and obstructive.  His incentive made the difference.  She smiled – a smirk, really – and then vanished into the forest in a blur.

He kept running, with the FyreFaery behind him – but shortly he heard a squeak from up ahead.  He stumbled forward, and soon he found his target.  The WoodWyfe had her pinned against a tree trunk, as the IceQueen struggled.

The FyreFaery came up behind him. 

“Help the WoodWyfe to hold her,” he told the FyreFaery. She moved forward and took one of the Witch’s hands, and now the IceQueen was spread nude against the tree, her tits displayed, her cunt helpless.

“Please, no,” said the IceQueen.  “Please, let me go.”

Klyin was shocked. 

“You can talk?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.  “Please.  Please don’t rape me.  I’ve never been… I’ve never had that done to me.  I don’t like men, not that way.  Please just let me go.  I have a name.  I’m called Elsa.  Please, let me go.”

A name, even.  He had heard of this, but never seen it.  This was a rare prize indeed.

“I’m sorry, Elsa,” he told her.  “But this needs to happen.  If I don’t trap you, you’ll cause trouble for men, and be a little bitch, out here in the wild.  And eventually you’ll dissipate into nothing.  You need to be trapped and trained, for your own good.  Eventually you’ll learn to enjoy it.”

“No,” she gasped, struggling against the other witches.  “No, please.”

He stepped forward, took out his cock, used his leg to kick her legs apart, and then sank his cock into her twat.  

It was cool – a strange feeling – but wet.  Witches were always wet for rape, whether they wanted it or not.  

Then he felt suddenly even colder – not just in his cock, but all over.  She was using her power.

He slapped her across the face – once, twice, three times.  “Stop it,” he growled.  He slapped her a fourth time.

The cold feeling vanished.  She started to cry.  When the tears cleared her cheeks, they turned into tiny crystals of ice and fell to the snow below.

He fucked his cock in and out of her a few times – but it wasn’t time to cum yet.  It was dangerous to give her more power before she was fully his.

He pulled out of her, and then took the fourth trap from his belt – the empty one, that he had prepared specifically for this hunt.  It was made of clear, beveled crystal.  He smiled – and then forced it up the pretty whore’s fuckhole.

She only had a moment to open her mouth in surprise – and then her body went translucent, and then vanished.  Her essence had been drawn into the trap.  

In his hand, the trap flashed with light for a moment, and then was still.

The IceQueen had been trapped.  One more for his collection.

She would have to stay in the trap for 24 hours to fully bind to it.  He could spend that time consulting his notes, learning how to best train a Witch of her type.  Would she respond to love and affection?  Or rape and abuse?  Was there some specific torture or degradation that would ensure her obedience?

He looked forward to finding out.

He thanked the WoodWyfe and the FyreFaery for their help, and dismissed them, and returned to his camp to rape the CookBitch.  

And as he spanked her tits and twat, and then forced his cock into her, he wondered too about the IceQueen’s unusual trait.  She could talk.  She had a name.

What did that mean?

And how could he make use of it?

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