The Witch of the Plains was infamous. 

She could grant a wish, but her price was high, the ability to orgasm was given to her as payment.

They had to do it right there, rub themselves in front of her as they repeated their begging request, taking themselves to the edge, her magic driving them deeper and deeper, making them hornier and hornier, until their desire to cum was greater even than their wish. 

And then, then she granted it, the climax ripped from them in her dark succubus whisperings. Their soaked underwear handed over as a sign of their contract.

She’d put them on display of course, symbols of what she’d taken, each adding to her power, each a promise of a life of frustration and never ending arousal.

They all returned, most the next day, the realisation of what they’d given up having sunk in. Tear stained cheeks and drenched underwear the evidence of their futile attempts to break her hold over them. 

She’d send them away, laughing, letting them get ever more desperate. 

But they’d be back, they always came back. Then they begged, then they wept, and then she took what she really wanted from them.

Beware the Witch of the Plains.

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