---Entry 16/Intermission 3/Lost for Words---

Dear Gretel,

My name is Constance Goings, or Connie to my friends, and I have been commanded to begin writing in this journal in a stream of consciousness where everything I'm thinking must be written down the moment I think it. Frankly I'm finding all of this preposterous, despite the proof lying in my current actions that I feel unable to refuse thanks to that wretched young urchin of a witch nearby, watching me. In trying to recall exactly how I wound up here, the memory that remains on the forefront over everything else is how I cleverly bested this petulant, arrogant child with a taste of Esther's medicine, and how She took an arrogant me just as easily with an even simpler ingredient - words.

I can feel it in me right now, the urge to write, to measure and value the power that words have. I believe I have more than a healthy respect for words of all kinds, and intentions that rest between each of them. But She believes I am lacking in that department, and such is my penance for being bested by only Her words. She beat me with pure hypnotic suggestion, leading me exactly where I thought I wanted to go for answers to Esther's controlled state; I was wrong to assume this clever witch was nothing more than someone inexperienced in our art, and lacked other skills. I don't think I've met someone more purely into Concilium than Her, willing to exercise considerable control even outside the bounds of magic and the seven wonders; Her disagreement with that assessment feels like a taunt, as if asking "what position are you in now to refute?" Right now, I would fervently like to believe that Her beliefs are worthless, as I would love to stop capitalizing Her pronouns in utter respect welling up in me, rising to something more I'm afraid to admit. But it's a waste to wish and start taking stock in what was and is. I was taken by words, manipulated by them, controlled by them, underestimating every word that left that supple mouth. Oh Goddess, I really do not need to even think that way about Her and focus on everything else. 

My face and vision is pressed downward towards the paper, looking at every word I write as I write it, but every other sense tells me what happening around me. I know I'm in Esther's bedroom. I know I am naked, with lukewarm air occasionally wafting over my body from movements of others nearby. But what their doing makes the air in the room heady and sultry. Their body heat makes my skin perspire. Their intentions make my loins wetter than they should be. I hate myself for responding to a kidnapping with any kind of arousal, but can't feel the choice in it. I would say it's just Her doing it, but I fear that it's not. My senses are dulled, but can still tell who is in the room and where. Esmeraude is nearby, from the noise and physical struggle she's making. Esther is on the floor, crouched below our captor, engaged in heated activities. I can only assume that my sensing the rooms are supplemented by Her, feeling Her in my head, supplying me with information She wants me to have, including the presence beneath the table I'm writing on, with the unmistakable feel of breathing at my exposed clitoris that I've been trying to ignore. 

A gagged Esmeraude trying to snap me out of my compulsion, knowing that she's trapped in a compulsion as well to stay bound, cut off from her magic, and fruitlessly complain in a muffled fashion sounds so attractive. It shouldn't be, but it is for a reason I know is inexpiable and not mine; understanding why it is hot and agreeing with it fills me with a fear of the unanswered what comes next. Will the old Constance even be there to protest if a newly-warped one is constructed to think like my captor and corrupter? That makes me desperately want to answer my friend's pleas, free myself from the confines of this writing desk, push the young witch aside and pull my friends to an exiting spell that will help to free us. I want to correct my mistakes, and save them from the future I fear. And that future I fear is how my wants are beginning to change, just like what I feel is true freedom is changing in me. I can feel Her smile from nearby, just like I can feel Her thoughts melding with mine, absorbing them. She hasn't moved, but I feel a phantom projection of her hugging me from behind, hands wrapping to tease and twist my nipples, her mouth breathing hot nothingness into my ear as if looking over my shoulder and my written obedience. That highlights the other dominant sound being Esther slowly lavishing at Her pussy, the shifting sound of fabric, moans, and sharp exhales tells me that Esty is being trained in how to properly worship Her. It pains me to know that She has standards, standards She will expect us all to adhere to. 

The guilt I feel in having had the best opportunity to end this salaciousness and failing weighs on what's left of my awareness. I want to willfully cry and defiantly stain the pages I write upon with marks of malicious moisture, but that willfulness is competing with a different kind of moisture, a lewd kind that's winning the battle over my soul. 

I sense that that notion brings a wider, bawdier addition to Her smile, changing Her body language. Rising from resting in a chair, she stands tall, walking a few paces towards me. I smell leather, I hear the sound of a crop in her hand, patting the free hand with it several times as she stands to look down at me. Despite physicality, our essences are staring one another down, neither unwilling to back down. Feeling that equality gives me pride, but also makes Her smile even deeper. I can feel the crop rising to strike, anticipating feeling it's cruelty against my back or head. It quickly falls to strike flesh, but all I feel is a gasp of heat at my genitals, as an unbelievable tongue finds my folds and lavishes them like Esty lavished Hers. I cannot believe I am still writing now the way I feel. I cannot believe I am still and writing, the way my body wants to thrash, my hips want to lean into that oddly-talented tongue practiced in pleasing women. No man or woman has ever made me feel this good, and my essence can only equate it to the cruel smile attached to the hand holding the leather crop, striking the ass cheeks of whoever is under this desk inspired by pain to bring me mind-blowing pleasure. The way they use their lips, their tongue and spirit, it's as if they've been turned into automatons, designed to bring this kind of pleasure, but with their souls and passions intact. She struck once more, and the shockwaves raged from Her to the crop, to the reddened ass, to my pink, wet folds, to the hand that wants to tremble and make my writing illegible, if I had the capability I miss to disobey.

Some connection I feel between us where She's aware of the feeling behind my words, relishing in my sorrow, wanting to transform it into bliss. I can feel Her intention, the silent command given that I've feared since I started writing. I don't want to write Her name. I don't want to even think Her name, which in this case should be no different. I wish could forget or excise Her name from my life altogether, but I can feel it. Like an inkling creeping forward from the back of my mind, or a tinge on the tip of my tongue, ready to slip out. It's there, waiting to be unleashed.

I'm fighting it, but the point of fighting is leaving me. Her name is of no consequence, the brave words I tell myself. And I should be brave enough to fight for what's left of me, to not allow Her to make it easy for me, and I hate that tingle running down my spine, giving me a preview for what happens if I do make it easy for Her. But no, I want to preserve what's left of me. I want to cherish the woman I am while I Cherish I love Cherish and Obey.

Dear Gretel,

My name is Constance Goings and I now just realize that there's a whole block of text above me that I should be able to recall as they're my thoughts but something done to me or worse yet something I've done has reset my brain and stolen all my clothing. I feel back to square one, even though I can't fathom the scope of what's being done to me. The stench of lust fills the air like steam in a sauna, and all I can be bothered to do about it is breathe it in and enjoy. All I can do is look down and marvel at my this written stream of consciousness unfolding before me and how I'm stuck here, forced to do it by Her witchcraft, a powerful craft as I've ever seen, asking me to do things for Her. I don't know why I'm complying so easily, and I don't know why a tingle just went down my spine like a lover's touch.

I need to think of something else, so I might as well marvel at how even in a stream of consciousness, I'm using rather proper grammar in my thinking instead of skipping commas, periods and capitalization, thought I wish I could skip the She's and Hers now, no matter how they're supposed to make me feel about Her. It's almost like She prefers to keep a standard of grammar within you, Gretel. She wants this standard kept in-spite of roadblocks she set up with earth-shattering distractions. She rises to smack me with a leather crop, but smacks the ass of someone underneath the desk who's been waiting, drooling over my pussy. The longer they work, the more my anatomy drools over their treatment and Her blessing. I want to drop this pen and slam my hands against this desk for how good this tongue is, and quiver how I might be so programmable before long. It's so odd how my overcharged brain is running slow, and not thinking about these distractions isn't helping.

It's also funny how in thinking about it, my thoughts are probably thought of at much quicker speeds than my normal rate of writing. Either I've underestimated my writing speed, which is unlikely, or unfortunately what's more likely is normal thought processing speed has slowed dramatically, narrowed to one thought at a time. I know She wants me thinking at a slower level to please her, but I also know that She wants me focusing on every word, as words got me into this position. Her words. She wants me to learn the power of Her words. I thought I did know the power of words. Hell, I thought I knew power before I met Her. And I'm always on the verge of saying it, but I know if I say Cherish's name I'll love Cherish and Obey.

Dear Gretel,

My name is Connie Goings, and I just reset myself again. I want to kick myself for falling into this trap yet again, but my feet are firmly on the ground. As constant as Esmeraude's tired, muffled pleadings or the sounds of Esty and Her that make me jealous for what I shouldn't want. I shouldn't want this, but I can't say I don't want it. I hate this, just like I hate losing more of me to whatever she is doing. Even forcing myself to look up to see what I've written isn't possible. All I can do is look down, at what I write, and what I will write, and assume that I can't say anything new and that any thought worth thinking is behind me.

Expecting being struck for insolence, a leather crop indirectly rewarded me pleasure, striking the ass of a masochistic cunnilinguist. Goddess, they're good. How I wish everyone on Earth could be so happy, particularly the ones imbuing happiness on others. But I have to stop myself for some reason and not give in like I want.

I dare not think of what I want to say. That name. She wants me to respect all words, especially Hers, more than I have ever before. Whatever was before, I feel her loving reminder of how I lost to her words, and what did me in was the most important word of all.

I can feel it ready to slip out of me easily, and that spinal tingle is going to no is loosening me to say it

Cherish I love Cherish and Obey.

Dear Gretel,

My name is Connie, and another reset has taken me. My eyes won't let me look up to see why. My mind won't let me go back any further than to show me why and how. I'm a prisoner of words, my cell bars running horizontal with the terms of incarceration written between them. Esty always said I get poetic when I get melancholy, or stoned. Right now I'm both, sad and high off of lust, moist like I can't believe, loving Esmeraude's struggling, Esty's cunting, and whoever is at my cunt above all else, except for who made it all possible. And we all do it for Her. It's so easy. My back arches just thinking about it. 

Should we want this? I don't know. But something deep in me is reminding me that pleasure never lies to you; it shows you the truth of you. Profound, and sexy. The way we all are, I bet the only person to think that rationally is Cherish I love Cherish and Obey.

Dear Gretel,

I'm Connie and I think I'm supposed to value words even more. I think I am, and I think I do. Or someone is thinking for me. I don't know why that latter is sexier than the former. I don't know why everything ahead is sexier and easier than everything behind, except for that back tingle. Words are so sexy, so powerful, as are the mouths that speak it, and stimulate lips alllll over the body. I feel like I can only say less of them now, but only because each one is so powerful. And none more than Cherish I love Cherish and Obey.

Dear Gretel,

I'm Connie, and I feel slutty for words. Words are sexy, words are powerful, just like She is. I never knew I could feel this way. But She did. She knows me, shapes me, makes me love being Hers. I think I love being Hers. I think, I know I love Her. I feel like thanking her for everything. Something between us is telling me coming up with a chant for myself is reward enough. Giving every word importance, I've come up with one.

Medicinal mouths
lips drugging with affliction
only words from her mouth
can utter sweet addiction

Thoughts written to see
Beliefs being commingling
So easy to repeat this process
blessed with sensitive skin tingling

Exciting tongues judges bodily shivers
of lust and legs and loins
So as I receive, I shall lovingly give
So as I find obedience and pleasure cojoins

With Her commands spoken to me
may I never go astray
led by the power of Cherish
I love Cherish and Obey

Dear Gretel,

I'm Connie and I love words and I love Cherish I love Cherish and Obey.

Dear Gretel,

I love Cherish I love Cherish and Obey

Dear Gretel,

I love Cherish I love Cherish and Obey

Dear Gretel,

I love Cherish I love Cherish and Obey

---Intermission 3.1/Cherish Addendum---

My word that was hot, not reading it, but feeling everything she thought to write. Gretel, I seriously hope you got off on hearing your name literarily screamed nearly as much as she will scream mine. Like I suggested to Connie, I'm going to refrain from reading exactly what she wrote right now; I already know it's fucking hot and that reading it could set my clitty off hands free a few times. Knowing a few words might set of something small and premature; "cunnilinguist" is definitely a word I'm stealing for later; Connie now loves the pet patting she receives for her cleverness entertaining her new owner. Esther's efforts generally have already got me pretty worked up, and I don't want to mix pleasures like that yet. But jeremy stationed under the desk between Connie's legs, I kind of don't care how many times she comes; she'll be too stationary to enjoy it now anyway, but the noise complains she'll get when I allow her to express herself...

One thought I know she had for sure was wanting to stain you with tears Gretel out of anger. I want you as pristine as I can keep you, but I won't lie and say it didn't cross my mind to stain you with her juices, but I promise I won't do that. I'll probably get her a dictionary with thick pages; she can get off to all those big words, stain the pages, and be set off even more by words with the smell of her on horny clit setting her off too.

Goddamn do I love being a fucking deviant.

With that in mind, gotta admit the weird vibe I get off of my trio so far. It's very subtle with hints of it here and there, but there's something pretty reserved about them. Like...nun kind of reserved. It's weird for sure. I'm convinced these ladies were of age back in the 60's; maybe I'm making a wild assumption, but I would've expected that free love spirit to stay hand-in-hand with what makes them witches. Maybe I've just been imprinting thoughts of Ma and Aunt Maggie too much on the mainstream of modern witchery. Maybe educated guesses like these aren't worth much. Maybe it's best to just take my time in learning about these ladies, thought-by-implanted-thought. The answers will come eventually, I'm sure.

And I just gave the gagged Esmeraude a loving stare, receiving cute daggers in return. My eyes swallowed those daggers into the dark void, along with her eyes before she realized what I was up to, blinked herself awake and looked away grumbling. I merely laughed my evil, under-construction laugh at her, so ready to delve into her like I've never delved into a witch before. Curiosity is hitting me harder than any need for an orgasm with whatever it is I'll uncover out of the redhead. She should be the best-equipped to fight me at every turn, but at every turn she's telegraphing a real need to surrender. 

The anticipation is about as exciting as thinking of the possible revelations, so I'm going to prolong things a bit. I just gave her a little sleeping incentive, and I think I'll order some fast food for everyone; Lawrence will get me some fatty burgers, and everyone else can feast on my cunt and get me off fast (and maybe get a burger on the side).