The Magic Ring, Part 8 - In the Baron's Keep
By Plowjack



Fergus lay on his huge bed, and wept. Sobs wracked his slender body, tears wet
the thick skins on the bed's wide platform. The bed was nearly nine feet long,
and most of that wide, built for his Suzanne in her Goddess- given form. His
Suzanne was taken - in the hands of their enemy, Baron Robert. From under his
nose, as he dawdled at camp, too weak as always ... too weak to help his love.

Yet he had returned to the camp with a sort of fire in his mind. It had taken
half a day for the company to return from the forest. He had set the Captain
(blacksmith and former soldier) to assembling their warriors, preparing arms
and armor, and readying the several tricks they had been devising for a
possible assault on the Baron's keep. Then he had fallen to his bed and wept,
and slept a fitful sleep, his mind coming to grips with all it held. He had
awakened and gone to the Priestess and said several things to her about the
Magical Art, things he was far from sure how he knew himself. He had gone to
the Shrine of their Goddess - a woman had painted a simple but erotic image of
the Amazon Goddess, Maeve, riding her helpless Divine Man, the aura of power
burning around her head. In one hand she held a skull-headed mace in the other
a chalice. Before her Image, Fergus made an offering and spoke a prayer that
wasn't his own. In these deeds he could almost feel the strong arms of his
Suzanne around him, guiding him; but when he was finished, it was as if those
arms had gone away. Taken away ...

And so he again collapsed on the huge bed of his beloved, and wept
uncontrollably, fear and anguish overtaking him. He longed for the strength of
his woman, and felt frightened and exposed and weak. He had managed to cease
his wracking sobs when he heard the door open.

The Priestess glided silently into the room, through the side door. She was a
statuesque mature woman, past childbearing age. Formerly a six- foot tall
strapping farmwife, she was a ruling Priestess of the witches. Now, under the
Ring's influence, she stood 6'3" of solid muscle, only her hips and deep bosom
wide with a softer flesh. She wore a sleeveless shift, plainly naked beneath
the thin cloth, and she sat down on the bed next to the quietly sobbing little
cock. She put one big hand on his naked back, and just sat with him a while.

"I lost her, Wynna'," he sobbed, referring to the Priestess by her pet name,
"I knew she had some plan - I should have known, should have made her see
sense" "Oh, Fergus, you're not strong enough to stop her from doing anything
she wants. You know that, as well as I do." "But I'm her voice of caution, of
sense and planning ... she thinks her strength and magic can do anything."
"Fergus, in what I have seen in this past moon, I think I have faith that she
can. Don't you have faith in your mistress, little boy?" The smaller man
paused, and his eyes seemed to focus, looking up at the handsome older woman.
He had often shared love with her in the rites of their coven, and now he laid
his head on her hard thigh and sighed, "Oh, I do, Wynna - but she's in such
terrible danger!" "We're all frightened, boy. We need all our skills to carry
out our mission - this is, as you said, the moment the Goddess has made us
for." The big woman reached down and pulled Fergus into her lap, settling his
body to her with one arm. She pressed her mouth over his in a warm, powerful
kiss, then flexed her huge right arm. Even before the Ring she had always been
twice as strong as the slight little tailor - now he ran a hand over her
knotted, peaked biceps and, of course, his cock began to rise. The Priestess
kissed him again and said, "Do you feel the light in you, little one?" "I do,
my Priestess," he answered, and it was true. The light of the Ring was in him,
and he felt his cock come fully hard, with no more than a kiss and a caress of
her arm. He straightened in her lap and put his arms around her neck, reaching
up to return her kiss more passionately. "By the Man, you're so tiny ... " she
chuckled. She ran her hands up his little arms, and she gathered him against
her bosom, and stood up from the bed, holding him easily by the ass, pressed
to her chest, shoulders wider than his own. "Not everywhere, Lady," Fergus
said, and she noted that he had not returned to his previous size following
the last working - his member was bigger than most women could consider. She
pressed it against her own silk-covered belly, and said, "See, boy, that's
Suzanne's power in your cock - we'll get her back, and we'll have her revenge
for her, and for us all." "Yes, Lady," Fergus murmured, his lips against her
neck, "I feel so much better in your arms ... " "Of course you do, little one.
Now come, we've done as you suggested and gathered our witches for the work."

Fergus wrapped his legs around the hard waist of the woman, and settled
against her bosom as she carried him out of the hut, and into the little
fenced compound that the coven used for its private workings. Over the whole
little temple a great oak tree arched, its trunk roped in with the wooden
stockade walls. The tall wooden wall contained a central firepit and a small
pool of fresh water, which seeped up from a spring below. It had been this
spring, long known as a magical place to the witches, which had led Suzanne to
choose the place where this whole camp had been built. When the witches
entered here they felt a sense of awe and strangeness - the Spirits were just
a little closer in this place.

Now a small fire burned, and, in the twilight of the day following Suzanne's
taking, the coven had gathered under the oak. Naked and gleaming with the
sacred oil of the rites sat Sigreda the red-headed warrior-witch with her man
Torwyn the Bard; next to her sat blonde Janet, formerly the newest covener, an
old friend of Suzanne's who had been brought in after the Ring's changes, and
the old Captain was there, his weathered blacksmith's body made firmer and
smoother by the Ring's power, his face also stained by tears for his part in
allowing the Mistress' capture. There were two empty places in the ring, for
Suzanne and the Welsh witch Mefanwy who had been killed in the taking of the
Mistress. So a new woman was present, a tall, wide woman named Hildara. She
had a mass of corn-yellow hair, and looked as if she might have been rather
round before the Ring's blessing. She still had truly massive thighs and
buttocks, and sat like a boulder, muscle filling her arms and shoulders and
chest. Each of the women was large and muscular, amazons made by the Ring's
power, while the men were hale and firm, plainly with less muscle than the
women. They sat cross- legged, leaving a seat before the pool, where Aedwynna
allowed Fergus to slide from her lap and he stripped off the small loin-skirt
he'd been wearing and took a seat between her place and the red-headed witch.
The Priestess, too, stripped off her simple shift and sat, the Captain next to
his Aedwynna, and he handed her the jar of sacred oil. She quickly anointed
her body, rubbing the warmly-scented oil into her arms and legs, her chest and
her sex, and between her eyes.

Then she turned and anointed Fergus, her big hands kneading and massaging his
puny muscles, and working his magically-large member back to a full size,
larger than his own little forearm. "Stay hard, little boy," she said to him,
and he felt a memory of the Ring's training flow into his body - he would stay
hard. Around the circle, the men and women had joined hands. Such was the
Ring's deep power that just the feeling of a solid squeeze of the women's
stronger, harder hands had made Torwyn and the Captain join Fergus in full
standing erections. The circle joined hands and began to chant the
incantations that would begin their work. As they quietly intoned the 108
repetitions of the Goddess' names, the Priestess spoke, "We gather together,
this circle of Maeve's witches, to work a work of seeing, to work a work of
scrying and spying, to see where our sister, Suzanne, may be. We will reach
across the boundaries, to learn of our sister and to aid her if we can."

The big witch held out an arm, and Fergus climbed into her lap again. The
older woman went up on her knees and pulled his back into her chest. Even on
her knees she was nearly as tall as he was, and she wrapped on arm around his
throat and with the other took his huge cock in hand. The witches began to
chant again, this time a strange, dissonant incantation. Each voice took a
different part, all weaving in rhythm and hypnotic in effect. "Listen, dolly,"
the Priestess said, as she bent Fergus over toward the pool. Her arm was
around his throat and her stony biceps controlled his air, restricting his
breath a little, as she excited his body and his mind, "Now you will send your
vision to see our Mistress, the Vessel of Maeve, your beloved Suzanne. Is it
your will to do this work for me?" "It is," he whispered, his own fingers
wrapped around the woman's immovable arm. "That is well, but in truth it makes
no difference. You are too weak to fail to want what I want, aren't you,
Fergus?" "Yes, Lady," he whispered. "Your only strength is my strength, your
cock is my cock, your vision is my vision, isn't that so?" The entrancing
voices buzzed on, and Fergus felt his mind go as limp and weak as his arms,
grasped in the will of the Priestess. "Yes, Lady" he said, as she allowed him
a full breath of air. "Open yourself to the vision, pretty man ... remember
the eyes of your beloved, the eyes of Suzanne, I will not let you fall into
the pool - you are safe in my strength ... let your eyes fall into the pool
... toward her eyes ... " And Fergus' vision-eye was released from his body,
and it sank into the dark waters deep on the small pool. Before he envisioned
the beautiful, shining eyes of his beloved ... the eyes that warmed with lust,
flashed with mischief ...

After an unknown time, he realized that he could see his beloved's whole face
... her hair cropped short ... cheek bruised and lips cut ... walls of stone
... chains of iron ... and he began to speak his vision to the witches ...

In a chamber of iron and stone, deep beneath the keep of Baron Robert, Suzanne
awoke. Her head was aching, eyes swimming and, when she tried to roll over or
lift herself, she found she was chained fast to a slanted table of wood. She
blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness - a vague haze of smoky
light leaked in through a barred grate in a door. She tried to draw a deep
breath, but a heavy wooden beam had been laid over her chest, and it took an
effort of her slowly-returning strength to take a full breath. Her arms were
stretched high, legs wide. She could not see herself past the width of the
beam, but she felt naked to the dank air of the cell. She coughed on the smoky
air as she breathed, and then heard a rustle from outside the door, then
voices, and the clatter of boots on stone.

She was inside Baron Robert's keep, and she was alive! Fergus had always been
right, the idea of simply fighting her way both in and out of the armed
compound just didn't stand to reason, and once she had grown to her stature
she had little chance of coming in disguised. When the Ring's magic had
brought her the Priest and his doxie she had seen an opportunity. She had
transformed the woman, making her another fighter against the Baron, but the
Priest she had carefully nudged and directed, making her spells subtle and
allowing him awareness of his own plans and will. She knew that her friends
would never agree to her plan - they loved her too much, bless them, so she
did what she did not like to do, and turned their will a little. She didn't
mind enflaming them with lust and delight, but to truly cloud memory and
decision, this she disliked. She had not expected her folk to follow or try a
rescue on the road - she had left instruction for them to prepare, instead.

As she cleared her mind she realized that her right hand was dreadfully hurt,
sending waves of pain down her arm. She looked up at her hand as her memory
provided her the image - her arm stretched on a table, a sharp, large chisel;
the fall of a hammer. Her right forefinger was gone, and with it, the Magic
Ring! Her hand was bandaged well, but her blood still stained the table on
which she was bound, dried on her arm. A cold fear flooded her body, as she
realized that her magical weapon had been taken from her. Of course Reynard
would have told the soldiers of the Ring and its power - and she had let
herself be helpless in her enemies' hands. Suzanne did not weep. She had
confidence in her own strength, even without the Ring, and she tested herself
against her chains, making them creak and rattle. Her hand burst into blinding
pain, and she couldn't maintain her effort, seeming to pass halfway out of
awareness for a moment from the pain.

So she had worked her web, and here she was - chained and damned well helpless
in this cold cell. Yet she had some preparations in place, even here. Just
now, however, she strained again to breathe deep, and to draw a little
strength back into her limbs. She was parched dry, and felt shaky - she dimly
remembered being given drugged drafts, as she had been carried back to the
keep, a two-day ride. It would be a little while before she could even attempt
to reach out with her magic. Now, she badly needed a drink of water.

Again she heard boots rapping on the stone floor of the hallway and a bulky
figure darkened the dim light of the door. The latch clacked with an echo, and
the heavy door swung open. A broad male figure walked in pulling a little cart
on which a small fire burned. The jailer (or so she guessed) was perhaps 5'9"
tall and seemed nearly as wide. His arms looked as thick as his legs, and his
shaven head seemed to grow directly from his shoulders. He wore a rough
leather jerkin over leggings and hard boots.

Following him into the room came the unexpected sight of two Norman women in
gowns. They were tall and shapely, one blonde and one back-haired.

"Light the torches, Wulf," one of them commanded, and two torches brightened
the room as the big guard set them in their sconces. The blonde clapped her
hands and cried, "come along you sluts" and two big servant women came into
the room pushing another cart this one bearing a pitcher and platter, and some
other objects.

"Hello Suzanne," said the black-haired woman. Her gown was tight across her
big chest. She stood tall - probably nearly 6', and wore wooden platens on her
feet to lift her above the filth of the floor. She looked as if she had some
muscle on her - nothing like the women of the amazons, of course, but she
walked up to Suzanne and punched the bigger woman solidly in the stomach.
Suzanne gave a little whoof, not having been very ready, but the woman rubbed
her wrist and said to her companion "She's hard as rock, Emma."

"Yes, she surely looks it, Tereza - look at those arms - the Baron will just
go mad for her!"

"Listen, you Saxon bitch," the black-haired woman said, once again pounding
Suzanne's belly fairly hard, "we have you now, and very soon Baron Robert
Fitzgerald duBois will have you too."

"I'll break Robert like a bundle of twigs, you cunt!" was Suzanne's growl in
reply, and she strained against her bonds, huge muscles swelling, the chains
rattling and the bar across her chest groaning. The blonde woman sauntered up
to Suzanne, clearly taller and stronger than the other, and hiked up her
skirt. She delivered a lightning kick to the center of Suzanne's gut, and the
big woman lost her breath as the big heel drove into her. The black haired
woman turned a crank on the table, and the heavy bar across Suzanne's chest
pressed tighter, preventing her from filling her lungs, leaving her gasping as
her shuddering muscles twitched, only to take a second mighty kick from the
thick leg of the blonde. Again the bar closed a little tighter as she tried to
inhale. Her breaths were shallow now, her hand aching, and she focused her
mind to make a show of strength for these enemy women.

"What pretty little feet, bitch," she huffed, "When you grow up they may be
pretty strong."

"Oh, Suzanne, I'm all grown up, and you won't be growing any more, you heathen
slut. We have your toy, and you are our toy, and ... " "And soon enough you
won't be hard any more," the black-haired woman interrupted. Emma, had put on
a heavy iron glove; now she strutted over and once again drove her fist into
Suzanne's belly, this time driving into her hurt muscles. "See, you're softer
already," she said and walked around to stand next to her then drive a heavy
iron punch into Suzanne right bicep, and then quickly again, making her hand
flare in agony.

Tereza, the blonde, brought a pitcher of water and poured some over Suzanne's
mouth, the big brunette lapping it up, getting several good mouthfuls as it
poured over her face and chest. Then she fed her with a crust of bread, as
Emma walked around to the other side of the table. As Suzanne chewed and
swallowed the morsel the black-haired woman began slowly pounding her bicep
with the iron glove, not too hard at first. Suzanne was given another big bite
of bread, but then the loaf was taken away. Emma continued to pound Suzanne's
arm, heavier now, her blows painful as she struck the same spots again and
again.

"You won't be strong by the time Robert gets you, slut." Emma said. "You won't
have much to eat, and you won't be able to get much breath, and we'll
tenderize you with care." Tereza had picked up a heavy baton - really an iron
rod with a leather-padded end, and walked to stand before the witch. "The
Baron told us not to slit and dice your muscles - that was our first choice -
he wants you whole for him. We can, however, make sure you're soft and a
little crippled by your pain. In a fortnight you'll be limp as rags for the
Baron to have his way with you." She slammed the heavy rod into Suzanne's
thigh - not too bad on the first stroke, then again, and again, one thigh and
the other, as Emma continued to torture Suzanne's biceps, and then her
shoulders, already stretched tight by the bonds. Occasionally Tereza would
slam the baton into Suzanne's gut. Suzanne cursed them, but couldn't gather
enough concentration to make an effective witch's curse - she merely spat and
swore. She did find the place in her mind where she could always rest and find
ease - even that didn't completely remove the pain of the beating, and it
couldn't stop the bruising and pulping of her muscles.

In time, the beating and taunting stopped. The Norman women didn't torture her
breasts or her sex; she assumed those were to be left for the Baron. They told
her they would see her tomorrow, and the two women and the jailer took the
torches and wheeled the carts away, slamming the heavy door behind them,
leaving her in the smoky grey twilight of the cell. The bar on her chest was
still tight, and she could breathe only shallowly. Her muscles throbbed and
ached and her hand continued to throb is deep pain. Her thirst was eased,
somewhat, but her belly rumbled, seeking its usual platter of meat. Her mind
was seated deep in its safe place, as she tried to find the clarity to
consider how to move her plan (her so mistaken plan ... ) forward, the lack of
breath slowing and dulling her awareness.

Suzanne struggled to inhale deeply, but her breath was restricted by the bar.
She wasn't unused to that - the witches used breath restraint, sometimes, to
find a deep trance. She allowed herself to fall into that state, and there, in
a cloud of pain and confusion, she seemed to feel another's breathing,
likewise restricted. She seemed to feel her breathing fall into time with that
other, and slow, out of her mental fog, she seemed to see the eyes of her
beloved Fergus gazing in fear and pity upon her.

"Lady, I have her eyes," Fergus said, his mind sharpening a little as the
Priestess pressed his throat a little between her biceps and forearm, then let
up so that he could speak. "No Lady, bear down a little," he said, and she
restricted his breath, allowing him to hold the link with Suzanne. Fergus had
described, in an entranced voice, all that he had just seen, but now he had
actually made a link with the big witch, and their hearts reached out to one
another. Tears again dripped from Fergus' face, splattering in the pool. They
would not be able to really speak to one another in words, but Fergus
formulated his simple message anyway. "Two days," he said, and twice more. It
would be two days before the amazon fighters could arrive at the Baron's keep,
"be strong for two days and we'll be with you." Fergus sent a wave of his
love, his desire, his lustful wish to be protected in her strong arms to his
lover across the miles.

Suzanne felt a wave of comfort and strength flow over her, images of her power
over her tiny lover making her limbs feel refreshed even in their pain. She
gazed into the image in his mind, and received an understanding without words
... if she could hold out for two days help would arrive! But she would not
wait helpless in this pit, or be rescued by her own women and men. She opened
her mind to Fergus, and grasped him in her control. Her years of domination of
his soft, pliant mind allowed her to grip his awareness as firmly as she would
his arm, and she found herself linked with the circle of witches, directing
their vision from her physically helpless position. She felt the warm strength
of the Priestess' muscles on her neck, she felt the arousal of the circle of
lovers, and she lifted herself on that power, rising from where she lay bound,
her mind rising out of her cell and out above and into the keep.

Suzanne's witch-eye seemed to expand to fill first the dungeons, then the keep
itself. She felt the misery of other prisoners and the dull cruelty of the
guards, then the sharper minds of the Baron's trained fighters and their
sergeants. Surrounding the keep she saw the gathered peasants, and the
merchants and minor nobles of the town. The lives of each seemed to shine in
her vision as she rode the coven's power, and she focused her awareness on two
minds within the keep. In the Baron's own hall sat the priest Reynard, sulking
quietly in the corner. He had spoken little since returning from his adventure
- she could see that his heart was crushed and twisted by his time among the
witches. In the soldier's barracks she found the guardsman Derek, who she had
once captured and enchanted. His simple mind was occupied with polishing his
mail, though she found a layer of erotic images surrounding the huge, powerful
cook women in the kitchen. A smile crossed her face as she realized that his
little time with her had made him desire women who could beat him senseless at
will. She was easily able to grasp his flaccid mind in her strength, and
instruct him in her desire. Occupied as he was with his duties, he would
comply when he could slip away.

The priest required more effort. His mind was somewhat trained by his prayers
and meditations, and she found it harder to penetrate. He had never become the
willing slave of the amazons, and she had allowed him to retain some of his
will even as she led him along in her plan. Now she needed to insinuate her
power into his belly. She slipped to him a memory of his lover Anna after the
Ring had changed her, of her huge bosom, of being forced to suckle her chest
by her powerful arms. The enchantment he still carried made his cock rise
under his robes, as images of huge, powerful women and his own weak
helplessness softened his knees. As always in Reynard this produced a wave of
shame and anger - the demons continued to invade his mind even in this
Christian house. The image of the witch Suzanne invaded his imagination, his
humiliation at being like an infant in her grasp causing his hips to thrust
involuntarily. He imagined the big witch trapped below him in the dungeon and
looked over at the Baron's two huge harlots. An intention formed in his mind
and he gazed around from his seat. The Baron was in the hall, a giant figure
on his seat of oak, so he simply filled a big cup with wine and sat back, his
eyes straying down the stairs to the levels below.

In the circle of the witches the Priestess was working Fergus' cock in her
hand, and the other women were exciting their men. The men folded into their
amazon women's arms, the extra women taking the mouth or hand of one of the
men while another had his cock. They continued to hum their musical charm, the
vibrations building in their enchanted bodies as the power flowed to Suzanne.
Suzanne opened her mind to the power of the witches, and to the minds in the
keep, and to the specific minds of just a few of the people of that keep. The
witches became a circle of flesh and spirit, the women using the men for the
lust they gave, all directed into Suzanne through the willing submission of
her beloved Fergus. Fergus seemed once again to feel Suzanne's powerful body
controlling his sexuality, and he felt the magical moment arrive. The witches
came together, and the power flowed into Suzanne. This was not the silver
light of the ring, but the more homely sort of witch-might, and Suzanne drank
it in, using it to bind tight the already-enchanted minds in the keep, and
even turn a couple of new, though willing, minds to her cause.

Back in the camp, the witches had exhausted their efforts. The men lay limp
and weak in the women's arms, as the amazons petted and cooed at them, telling
them how sweet and manly their soft bodies were. They all breathed deeply and
slowly fell into semi-sleep as they recovered from the giving of power to
their Mistress. The new witch, Hildara, has settled herself beneath Fergus and
taken the first few inches of his huge cock into her mouth to receive his
flow. Now Hildara and the Priestess cuddled the little man between them.

After an hour of rest the coven rose from their temple. They washed and
dressed, and took their places among the Amazon warrior women. The witches
clothed themselves to befit their work, in tatters of black and feathers, in
ropes and knots and shards of mirrors. The women took heavy spears, and
hammers too great for most men, the men took sharp swords and shields.
Together with a band of 50 women and some other men they set off at a run for
the Baron's keep, most of two day's march away.

In her bonds and shackles, pressed in the Baron's device, bruised and
determined, Suzanne also fell into sleep. Her spells percolated through the
Baron's keep even as she sought fitful rest. Bereft of her greatest weapon,
she would use the strength and wisdom she had won, and she meant to triumph.