Witch Poetry Novels & Stories

“I always get what I want eventually. Always.” Then he pressed his lips to mine in a light kiss. I tried to jerk away but he was inescapable. Having every inch of me effectively pinned against the slick tree while he toyed with my breast and used my thigh to stroke his cock. “Stop.” I gasped. “You’re a witch. You don’t tell me what to do. Warlocks don’t obey witches.” He pushed harder against me until he groaned deep in his throat and I felt fluid spurt along the inside of my thigh.

“Good job princess.” I looked around seeing others walking into the woods. One man, a tall slim man dressed all in a black robe was burning something in the fire. The smell seemed to be white. I don’t know why white was the word that first came to me, maybe pure. I looked up at Nikko, “Is he a witch?” Nikko looked down at me, “a warlock maybe. I don’t think he would take kindly to you calling him a witch.” He arched his brow, “why Samantha are you a witch?”

​"Polly? What is it? What happened?" ​Abigail didn't move, but her hands gripped the edges of her chair until her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. ​"The witch," Polly gasped, her voice a dry rasp. She shoved the parchment onto the table, her hands shaking violently as she smoothed it flat. "The nightshade poison she used on the ward... it wasn't just a toxin." ​Abigail leaned forward over her belly. "What is it, Polly?" ​"A blood-vow. She made it before she fled the territory." Polly pointed a trembling finger at a line of faded, archaic script. "A phantom shroud. The texts confirm it. It binds her life force to a potion that completely strips away a wolf's sensory footprint."

Now Frederick and Brittany both held on to Blair, they were so scared. "I knew I should have stayed back with mother at home". Frederick said, and though Brittany was scared, she was still able to hide her fear somehow. "What is happening? Brittany asked, when the wind blew her away, and she found herself on the other side of the grave house, it was when she looked around her, that she noticed that she just fell on the body of one of the old witches, that is trying to get up, she screams and got up, but the wind still kept blowing her, but she struggles till she got to where king Arthur is standing with his Queen, who seemed untouched by what is happening.

On the night of their fourth wedding anniversary, Raymond Whitmore stood on a Boston stage and unveiled a perfume called Eternal Claire, dedicating it to the woman he swore he would love until his last breath. The world called it the most romantic gesture of the year. Claire called it a cage with a golden lid. Because thirty minutes later, a stranger sent her a video of that same perfume being poured over another woman's naked chest, in a suite two floors below the ballroom, by her husband's very hands. For four years, Claire had traded her PhD, her name, and her silence for a marriage the tabloids envied. In return, she got a mother-in-law who called her barren, a husband who called h

I'd done the very same thing many times on the street, but he seemed to master it. "It's a witches' bottle. Goat's blood. It's used by the whole coven from which it derives its powers. That's how they cursed your wife... You heard the spell yourself, didn't you?" "Yes," I conceded. I felt reprimanded, the mention of my wife sobering me. "It sounded... Semitic? I'm not even sure if that's the word, but that's what came to me," I said.

We hung there together in a vortex of possibility, floating in a balance of possible futures and worlds seen and unseen. I held him in my hand, exquisitely aware of ancient secrets. Yin and yang, sunlight and shadow - brave knight, fair damsel. As well, strength of arms dashed against crafty witchery - succubi and night walkers, brave men ravished by night spirits for their own amusement. The Witch of the Wind quested the points of the compass, poised in that instant between intent and action. The summer wind swirled, and my blood answered - another instant, and I would have been swept away by my own red tide. My mind swirled with possibilities, with personalities - every aspect of the Mothe

Author's Pov In a dimly lit chamber illuminated by flickering candlelight, the witch stood over her cauldron, the air heavy with the scent of herbs and incense. The atmosphere was tense, fraught with the weight of impending fate. The witch's gnarled fingers danced with precision as she added ingredients to the bubbling liquid, her movements both fluid and deliberate.

The force of their power tore through the night, sending gusts of wind swirling through the trees and casting erratic shadows across the forest floor. Both witches' faces contorted with concentration as they battled for dominance. Sabrina’s energy pulsed with a radiant, almost ethereal glow, her magic weaving patterns of silver and white. The witch’s power, in contrast, twisted into dark, curling tendrils, laced with an ominous, sickly green.

“No matter what you do, don't let my brother find out what happened between us. I will never forgive you in the same way that I did the rest of you.” “Remember that I am not the same person I was when you gang raped me. I am Violet now, the woman you bow to, the woman capable of resurrecting you, the white witch, as they call me. But let me assure you, they may call me the white witch, but I'm not that kind, so don't get on my nerves.”