When the Dark Wins

No!

Kept an eye on that moving fist. The hard ridge it outlined.

They’re gonna get you anyway.

The priest was young. Probably her age, or somewhere near. Clean-shaven. Fit. She could do worse.

Fuck you!

“Will you serve?” said Mather.

Her open-mouthed nod looked just like the others.

Nothing happened. No one moved to release her wrists.

“Will you serve?” The repetition was identical in tone to the original.

Desperation surged up her throat.

“Yes!” Surely now. Now they would let her have it. She humped at the air, eyes locked with Brother Raymond’s. There must have been some instruction for the priests not to touch the Vicers until they’d agreed, because his face looked like he was ready to be all over her.

“Yes, what?”

Buckeye searched the invisible for what it was Mather wanted. When she found it, she wanted to heave, but the pulse between her legs made her choke out the answer.

“Yes, Father.”

Mather gave a nod. Brother Raymond bent to her manacles.

There was no need for force as she stepped away from the restraints. The young priest was moving backward to the mat, fingers already tricking open his fly, reaching in to lift an erect cock and point it out through the gap. Even as Buckeye sank to her knees, eyes glazed with want, he was gathering his balls to hang them over the divided fabric.

Her fingers wrapped the shaft without preamble. The plump, livid head became the focus of her world. It begged to be swallowed, and Buckeye did.

The priest controlled a hum when she took him into her mouth. Grunted when she started helping meat to the back of her tongue with a pumping fist. Her pussy throbbed, effervescent in the grip of The Song. She choked and slobbered on him, rabid in a way she could never remember of the times she’d tried to please a man in The Vice.

It didn’t last.

Just as she’d found her stride, Brother Raymond pulled away, trailing a spiderweb-thin line of saliva from her lower lip to his glossy prick. Buckeye was dazed, lost, but he was dropping to a knee, an arm out to help her further down on the mat.

She needed no such assistance.

In a breath, the ceiling was behind his head. Her shoulders and tailbone sank into the brief padding. Thighs fell open like pages in a book, and the priest was there, reading between the lines.

He knelt, bracing on one arm. The other hand aimed and sluiced his cock through the wet disaster she spread for him. Buckeye had no idea what to do with her hands, but it didn’t matter.

The priest was inside her.

He was inside, and she did the opposite of fending him off. A tiny, caged part of her mind shrieked and rattled the bars for her to stop—for the love of all that was left of her, stop!—but the drug roared over it, obliterating. The moment their bodies kissed together, they both seized a rhythm out of the humid air and launched into their fucking like a song.

The Song.

I don’t care. I don’t care.

He plumbed his length down into her, not so slow and careful as the other priests she’d seen, and Buckeye met him with greedy hips. The chafe of fabric on her inner thighs had her leaking more arousal, slicking his path. His Adam’s apple bobbed over that white collar insert a few inches above her nose, and she would’ve craned her neck to bite it if she thought she could reach.

Buckeye pressed her heels into his flexing ass, urging him home. Brother Raymond’s face was tight, concentration intense on the sin of pounding his cock into writhing Vicer body. He was beautiful in some perverse way and, in the grip of these Covvie drugs, Buckeye thought she could watch him sweat and thrust and violate her body forever.

And then she was empty.