12 after a hiatus

Sister Mary welcomed Brother Mike into her apartment.

“Hello, Michael.”

He stared at her eyes for a full 5 seconds, before dropping his hungry gaze to her cleavage, then her bare midriff, then her lingerie clad pelvis and naked thighs. She suppressed a smile as he lingered there, shuddering in anticipation. This was almost too easy.

“Hello, Michael,” she repeated. That did the trick. He broke off his stunned stare and turned the almost beatific expression into a more worldly and safe leer. As if he was in control and she were beneath his notice. He was better than most, however, because his portrayal of the masculine stud was deep. The leer changed to an expression of earnest desire. A lesser woman would have missed it, and assumed he was interested in her as a person. Sister Mary knew better.

“Hello, Mary. Good to see you. How have you been these last few weeks?”

“Wonderful, Michael, thanks be to the goddess.” The words were never forced, not for Sister Mary. She believed and lived every one of them on a daily basis.

“I’ve done what you asked,” he began.

“I know,” she reassured him.

“So now,” he said, assured of victory, “we can finish what we started.”

“Oh yes, Michael. We can finish.”

She moved her mouth to his, allowing his hungry and quick tongue find its way around. She reached out to find his hands, and placed one on her breast, one on her buttocks. He felt the naked flesh of the latter, the erect nipple of the former. His tongue moved faster, and more strongly. He would be ready in a few brief seconds.

That wouldn’t do. “Slow down, darling,” she breathed, “can’t have you finishing too soon.”

Brother Michael moaned his acceptance and stopped trying to chew through her face. Sister Mary appreciated the chance to breath, and reached for his belt buckle. She released the clasp, and slid his zipper down, after opening the button on his jeans. She slid his pants and underwear down his legs, and took them off. He obliged. She hated it when men left their pants around their ankles during this part. As if they could just pull them up and head out when their singular egocentric needs were met. It made her job that much easier when they acted so selfishly.

She grabbed him, feeling his taut hardness. “not bad,” she thought. she made a breathy sound through her half clenched teeth and squeezed him, hard.

like most men, Brother Mike was a slave. A slave to his prick. A slave to his mother’s upbringing. A slave to women like her. The trick was not to let him realize it until it was too late.

Sister Mary, still holding the hard penis in her hand, knelt and began to pray. She slowly took him into her mouth and listened to him moan. All the while, she was chanting, silently, sub-vocalizing each sacred syllable. She was doing her part to bring the goddess into being. To create her out of the hopes and beliefs of this most secret of secret sects. The group meetings were fine, they did their part, too. Helped create more lust for men like Mike. More slaves for Sister Mary to exploit, use and finish off, usually.

She felt the tension in his scrotum, the hardness of him almost quivering with anticipation. She slowed down, daring him to last. His breathing grew heavier, more ragged. He wasn’t going to last much longer, but that was ok with her by now. All she needed was his orgasm, not his pleasure. She finished her chant, then squeezed his testicles with her hand. He exploded into her mouth, yelled, and then began to realize what was happening.

The energy flowed away from Brother Mike, into Sister Mary, all for the good of the goddess. Sister Mary would see this one through, she would. She’d create the goddess from whole cloth if she had to, or from scraps and semen. It didn’t matter to her. She had a mission.

Brother Mike’s life energy was leaving him. He couldn’t scream now, even if he wanted to. She lowered him to the floor, still taking in his essence, and allowed his body to sink into itself, like it was deflating. His eyes, the last thing to actually leave this plane of existence, looked at her wtih horror, fear, and, finally, true understanding. She thought maybe he had understood the true reason. He had been in the meetings enough to know their purpose. She hoped that the final spark in his rapidly deflating eyeballs was the rarest of gifts: acceptance.

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One Comment

  1. sp1deyluvr
    Posted December 10, 2006 at 1:01 pm | Permalink

    Oohh Creepy psycho. The worst kind of bad guy is that one who doesn’t see what they’re doing as wrong. DEVIOUS!

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