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Moira and Guinevere Carling were sisters, though not in the biological sense. Each found a similar in the other -- sisters in dark temperament and unnatural desires, sisters with great powers in the black craft -- and the two cleaved to each other for mutual benefit. What benefit, you might ask, would compel two of a species with a well known preference for solitude to spend eternity together? Quite simply stated: beauty. It isn?t as unreasonable as one might think. After a few hundred years, even the most radiant of witches will find their splendor waning, and, quite frankly, Moira and Guinevere were not born with the comeliness such as their craft has created. Were you to look within your heart, could you honestly say you would contentedly live an endless existence looking as a stereotypical ancient hag? No, I very much doubt so. And yes, there are a great many spells and enchantments in a witch?s arsenal to enhance beauty. Consuming the heart of a child, winded incantations over bubbling caldrons of putrid smelling (not to mention tasting) potions, invoking glamour (quite effective, but very exhausting)? But none of these were quite as easy to obtain, nor half as pleasurable, as the spell that Moira fortuitously conceived one glamoured evening in the arms of a long forgotten French prince. Once his royal cock was buried deeply within her greedy, insatiable pussy -- once his handsome face was screwed up in that singular moment of pure ecstasy just before the fall -- Moira whispered her greatest wish in a language so evil that a weak-hearted mortal would die from pure, abject terror. Her prince?s eyes flew open, and Moira saw wild fear in his eyes. Then his body was racked with shudders of a pleasure so painful that he cried out terribly as his life essence spilled into Moira?s barren womb. Taking perverse delight in the pain and fear of her lover, her pussy bore down upon his surging cock and she screamed from the incredible power that coursed through her body. A great heat filled her, the spell inadvertently cast was complete. Ankara escort Though the glamour illusion had long since fallen in the face of such all-consuming rapture, her prince looked down upon her in wonder. She was now more lovely than the most beauteous of courtiers. Her once homely self was all exquisite delicacy and sensuous curves. Had Moira been willing to share her discovery, she undoubtedly would have been able to claim the high seat in the Witch?s Enclave. But renown was not important to this great witch. It was a matter of numbers: the more witches that knew of this, the fewer men there would be to serve her needs. For there was one unpleasant side effect to this wondrous breakthrough: as she consumed their life essence for her beauty, the men no longer had life to give. They left Moira?s arms after a night of great passion as barren as she. Moira would never allow her supply of everlasting beauty to wither away for something as frivolous as a distinction within the circle of her peers. Once a year for the next hundred years, Moira left her solitude to renew her beauty, and then retreated again to her quiet life in a reputedly haunted castle along the southern border of Scotland. It was more than a quiet life; she was inexplicably lonely. Like an answering prayer, Guinevere came a-knocking on her door one particularly nasty winter?s night. She asked for safe harbor ?til the morn, and Moira welcomed Guinevere into her home. Like recognizing like, their talk quickly turned away from the horrible weather and to the occult. Night turned to day, day turned to week, week turned to year. They spoke of past histories, peers who feigned magnificent fiery deaths much to the amusement of other witches, and, of course, they shared spells and enchantments. Desires were unearthed, and the two were delighted each to learn the other tended to the immoral. For that year, Moira immersed herself in the delectable taste and sweet sighs of Guinevere. Some days, she would spend hours at lapping at Guinevere?s Ankara escort bayan clit. Others found herself rocking her hips in rhythm with Guinevere?s clever fingers as the other woman delved deeply. Their kisses were carnal and cruel; with sharp nips and devouring suckling and battling tongues. Pain was as integral as the pleasure, giving and receiving both. In the mornings, Guinevere and Moira went over each other?s body to discover the newest bruises, bite marks and deep scratches made during the night?s assault. They applied poultices and whispered words of healing while rekindling a fresh surge of craving with none-too-subtle fingerings, licks and kisses until they were again moaning and screaming so loud that the nearby villagers believed that the old ghosts had returned. For that year, they fed off each other, until the day came that Moira knew it was time to leave to find a man to revive her fading beauty. If Guinevere ever noticed, she never said. For that reason, Moira decided to gift her lover with her knowledge. ?Come with me, my love,? she whispered seductively to her friend after explaining how the incantation worked, ?Together no man could refuse us. And we will fulfill their darkest fantasies and give them such pleasure that they would willingly give us their life essence were we to ask. Come with me, my love, and we shall feed.? And feed they did. Together, they roamed the dirtiest streets as the cheapest prostitutes, or introduced kings for a night in the darkest of sexual pleasure. They let horse grooms ride them in barns and stalls; they feasted upon the meat of butchers with the blood and gore of the trade pooling at their delicate knees; the most virtuous of husbands took them on the very tables their families ate upon while the wife slept unknowingly in the nest room; they even spread their legs to sailors in the cargo hold of the great ship as they crossed the ocean to the new world. No man was safe from their lusts, and for almost three hundred years, Moira and Guinevere Escort Ankara fed. As time passed, Moira noticed how much easier it was to corrupt the minds of men to their will. In the purity of the 1920?s, there were secret clubs that catered to men with dark tastes. Guinevere and Moira found no lack of men so desperate not to wonder why a woman would give such pleasure without expecting payment in the Great Depression as they made their way to the west coast. They gave fond farewell parties to departing soldiers the night before the scared boys were to be shipped off to France and Germany. When the fifties brought an influx of desk jobs, they sucked the life essence from the men who manned them from beneath the cold aluminum desks. Moira and Guinevere ran naked for the three days of Woodstock, feeding off of more men in those few days than they had in any single year before. The 1980?s were a time of sexual exhibitionism, the 1990?s a time of sexual sadism, and the witches basked in the glory of their newly found freedom. To celebrate Moira?s 500 th birthday in the early spring of 2008, Guinevere found a favorite of her friend?s. A simple frat party at a house in the Berkley Hills. Uninvited and unknown, the two women waltzed into the house as if they owned it. They were dressed for the singular purpose of seduction; all the men turned to watch as they sauntered into the center of the crowd to the heavy beat of Nine Inch Nails. As if of a single mind, they turned towards each other and began to dance. Their bodies undulated as they wound their limbs together. Guinevere hitched up her skin-tight, knee-length leather skirt until it rode just beneath the curve of her ass so that Moira?s silk stocking clad leg could ride between her own. Guinevere?s full breasts were barely confined by a simple black blouse completely open but for a single strategically placed button, and as she bounced and moved to the music, glimpses of her heavy cleavage showed to anyone and everyone who desired to look. Moira had clad herself in virginal white for the occasion. Her top was a tight contraption of lace and whale bone from back in the era of the unnatural thinness that corsets used to give a woman?s figure. The brutally taut laces forced her breasts so that they rose so high above the fabric that her nipples were blatantly showing.