Katrina and the wicked priest (Part 1 remastered into something hotter) (fm:first time, 14205 words) [1/3] show all parts

You can change the width of the story text shown below:
Use how much percent of the screen width?

[ default ] [ 10% ] [ 20% ] [ 30% ] [ 40% ] [ 50% ] [ 60% ] [ 70% ] [ 80% ] [ 90% ] [ 100% ]

Options: Plain text or PDF (fanclub only!) version  |  Mark story  |  Mark author

Don't forget to vote for this story, in the yellow voting box below the story!

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Papa Cain stood motionless, one hand gripping the edge of the pew, knuckles white. A slow, hungry heat crawled through his body — low, tense, and impossible to ignore. His breath deepened, chest rising just a little more with each inhale. Something stirred inside his robe, primal and restless, pressing tight against the edge of his garment. It wasn't just desire — it was a need, hot and pulsing, that made his cock tighten beneath the loose folds of his robe.

Inside his skull, the words snarl and pulse:

Fuck, she's perfect. That mouth will moan around my cock before the moon bleeds twice. I'll pry her open until she begs the night to take her.

Outwardly he only smiles, lays two fingers over his heart, and moves on. The drumbeat resumes. Congregants answer in one voice—"Yes, Papa." And Katrina's pulse flutters like a trapped bird.

After the service, the Kalina family lingers near the altar, drawn in by the strangeness of it all. The air feels thick, not just with incense, but with something unsaid — something humming beneath the surface.

Papa Cain approaches with a slow, deliberate pace. His smile is warm, but there's something unreadable in his eyes. His presence carries weight, like a man used to being obeyed without question. His voice, when he speaks, is velvet laced with gravel.

"You are new to this place," he says, addressing the parents but letting his gaze flick to Katrina — just a second too long. "Few find this chapel by accident. It calls only to those who are ready."

Katrina's father chuckles, polite. "We were out looking for a place to worship. Somewhere... deeper, I suppose."

Papa Cain nods. "Depth is not always found in the familiar. Here, we do not bind the soul with shame. We open it. We let the divine in where the world has closed the doors."

Katrina's mother clasps her hands, visibly moved. "Sacred bonds without shame—what a beautiful way to draw nearer to the divine."

Papa Cain's eyes linger on Katrina again. "Yes," he murmurs. "It begins with shedding... fear. And trusting the guide who walks beside you."

Katrina steps forward, her eyes bright with wonder. "Wow... I've never heard anything so real," she says, her voice almost a whisper. "It's like... you're speaking straight to something inside me." She pauses, breath catching in her throat. "How do you know what parts of yourself need to be... opened?"

Papa Cain tilts his head, studying her. He licked his lips, cock already stiff beneath his robe. She had no idea how badly he wanted to shove her down and make her choke on his cock right there on the stone floor. Her innocence made it hotter. "That is something felt, not taught. But if you're willing to explore it, you'll begin to feel which doors have remained closed for too long."

She swallows hard, but doesn't look away. "And you help people... unlock those parts?"

"I do," he says. "But only when they're ready."

There's a pause. The air presses closer. Papa Cain turns back to the parents, his tone warm but practiced.

"Your daughter has a bright spirit. Curious. Open. With the right guidance, she could blossom into something... divine."

Her father beams with pride. "She's always been that way. Sensitive to things of the spirit. Always asking questions."

Papa Cain nods thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. But beneath the surface, his mind simmers. If only you knew, he thinks as the father beams with pride. If only you could see the things I'll make her crave — the ways she'll beg to be opened. Not even you will recognize her when I'm done.

Papa Cain's eyes slide to Katrina. Sweat glimmers at her hairline; her pupils are blown wide. He can nearly smell the faint sweetness rising beneath her dress. He lifts her chin with a single rough fingertip, forcing her to meet his stare.

"Her spirit is bright," Papa Cain says, his voice rich and measured as his eyes settle on Katrina.

"But her body... it still cages it. With time, and the right guidance, she may yet learn to let it breathe."

He turns slightly toward her now, gaze sharp and unwavering. "Tell me, Katrina... do you wish to feel it breathe?"

Katrina's legs press together, a tremor catching her voice. "Yes... I think I do."

Her father beams with paternal pride. "Our daughter has always hungered for deeper truth."

Papa Cain grinned as her father spoke, already picturing her on her knees, gagging on his cock while her parents waited outside like fools. She wouldn't just take it — she'd drool for it, beg for more, her innocence broken open under his hands. Papa Cain thinks—and almost groans.

"Oh, she'll take it in," Papa Cain said, eyes gleaming. "Deeper than her father could ever imagine."

"Come tomorrow, when the tide is low. Come alone."

He looks straight at Katrina. "I'll be waiting for you early. Don't be late."

Her parents nod, joy shining in their eyes. A guide, a mentor—that is what they hear.

Outside, dusk ignites the sky in molten orange. Incense clings to Katrina's hair, sticky on her skin. She hugs herself as she walks, thighs brushing, breath short.

Papa Cain watched her from across the dim chapel, the flickering candlelight tracing the tight curve of her ass beneath the thin fabric. Every sway of her hips made his cock twitch — fuck, she didn't even know what she was doing to him. He masked the heat with a slow, steady smile, but inside, the hunger clawed harder.

Chapter 2 - The Confession Talk The next morning, the sun hung low over Le Morne, casting long shadows across the narrow jungle path Katrina followed alone. Her breath was shallow, hands trembling as they clutched the hem of her short pale-yellow sundress. Though modest by most standards, the thin cotton clung to every curve: her nipples pressed stiff against the fabric, and the light material hugged the rounded swell of her juicy, firm ass, swaying with each step.

No bra. No panties. She didn't know why she'd done that—only that she loved the way it felt. Bare beneath the sundress, every step made her body hum. She loved the freedom, the air brushing between her thighs, her nipples grazing fabric with nothing to shield them. It made her feel alive.

The chapel was waiting.

Inside, incense drifted like ghosts. A richer blend than yesterday—sandalwood, musk, and something darker, almost earthy.

Papa Cain was waiting for her at the chapel's stone porch, seated on a carved wooden bench that overlooked the dense, green jungle. The early sun kissed his dark skin, and the breeze carried the scent of burning sandalwood from inside. As Katrina stepped into view, his eyes drank her in—slowly, hungrily. The thin sundress clung to her curves, the swell of her perky breasts shifting with every breath, nipples poking brazenly beneath the cotton. His gaze lingered on the soft sway of her hips, the tight roundness of her ass as she walked. He felt the familiar stir of heat between his legs. She was ripening beautifully. And his thirst for her deepened.

Then he rose with slow grace.

"Good morning, Katrina," he murmured.

He leaned in and greeted her with a kiss to each cheek, his lips warm against her skin. On the second kiss, he lingered just long enough to breathe her in—his nose brushing the curve of her neck, inhaling the faint, sweet musk rising from her bare skin. A subtle smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You smell like rain and hunger," he said softly.

Katrina shivered.

He gestured to a small table near the porch's edge, where two earthen cups steamed gently. "Come. Sit with me awhile."

She nodded, following him to the bench. He poured the dark coffee slowly, the steam curling between them like smoke from a ritual. She took the cup with both hands, her fingers brushing his.

"Come. Sit with me," he said, his voice low and warm, a gentle current beneath still waters.

She obeyed, settling into the chair beside him. The wooden bench was warm from the sun. Papa Cain handed her a mug, their fingers brushing. His were strong, dry, deliberate.

She took a small sip. Bitter. Earthy. Stronger than what she was used to.

"It's made from wild beans," he explained. "Grown in secret places. Like truth."

She smiled softly, unsure what to say.

He sipped his own drink and turned to her. "Your family... are you settling in well here on the island?"

She nodded. "It's peaceful. Slower than the city. But something about it feels... different. Heavy. Like it's hiding something."

He chuckled softly. "This island has a way of slowing people down. Helping them feel things they've ignored for too long."

She looked at him, curious. "You mean like... spiritual things?"

He nodded. "Yes. But not the kind from books or rules. I'm talking about what's already inside you. Things you've always felt but were told to ignore."

She hesitated, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

Papa Cain's gaze lingered on her lips before returning to her eyes. His voice was calm, but full of weight.

"You'll see, Katrina," he said gently. "Soon... you'll understand."

Katrina shifted in her seat, glancing down. A warmth stirred in her belly. She took another sip of coffee, using the mug to hide the growing blush on her cheeks.

But he watched her. Unblinking. Undressing.

While she stared into her cup, he let his eyes roam. Her sundress clung lovingly to her form. Her perky boobs shifted slightly with every breath, nipples pressing visibly beneath the thin fabric. He imagined the way they'd taste—soft and flushed with heat. Her thighs, parted just enough to hint at more. Her mouth, so pink and innocent, now wet with the coffee he gave her. He watched her lips wrap around the mug, and his cock twitched beneath his robe.

Every movement she made seemed unintentional—but to him, it was invitation. Offering. Ripening temptation.

Katrina turned toward him, catching the end of his gaze.

He didn't look away.

Instead, he smiled—calm and unreadable.

"You're blooming, Katrina," he said softly. "Do you feel it?"

She hesitated. "I... I don't know what I feel."

"You will."

Then, slowly, he rose from the bench with the grace of a man who never rushed for anything—especially not the things he knew would come to him willingly.

Papa Cain turned to her, his voice low and smooth. "Come. Let me show you the chapel as it was meant to be seen."

Katrina stood, heart pounding. Her bare thighs brushed as she moved, the thin sundress swaying with each step. As she passed him, his hand moved lightly—deliberately—to her lower back. His palm rested just above the curve of her ass, fingers trailing with barely-there pressure. She tensed at the touch.

There was nothing accidental in it.

As his hand glided lower, he paused—just at the top of her backside. He felt the heat of her skin, the softness beneath the fabric, and the undeniable truth that there was nothing beneath her dress. No panties. No barrier.

He exhaled a slow breath and smiled.

"So free already," he murmured, almost to himself.

He stepped behind her, guiding her gently forward with a hand still resting at the small of her back.

"Please," he said softly, eyes trailing down the outline of her body. "Let's move inside."

As she stepped through the threshold of the stone arch, he watched her ass sway beneath the sundress, every motion pulling him deeper into hunger. The fabric clung to her like second skin—thin, weightless, hiding nothing. Each step teased the soft bounce of her cheeks, round and perfect, the kind of body meant to be owned, fucked raw. Papa Cain's jaw tensed. His cock stirred beneath his robe, thickening with each sway of her hips.

Soon, he thought. I'll have her bent over those sacred cushions... her sweet little ass spread wide, begging to be filled. I'll bury myself so deep in that tight hole she'll forget her own name—only mine will leave her lips.

The thought made him twitch, his pulse thick with heat and purpose.

But not yet.

The rite had to begin with obedience. With surrender.

The chapel door closed behind them with a dull, echoing thud.

The space inside was dim and still, lit only by the red glow of scattered candles. The air was heavy with incense, thick enough to taste. The silence felt sacred... and charged.

Papa Cain moved with deliberate calm. He walked toward one of the old wooden pews and pulled two chairs from the end, dragging them across the stone floor with a low scrape. He turned them to face each other and placed them just close enough that their knees would almost touch.

He looked at her.

"Sit," he said gently, but with a quiet authority.

Katrina obeyed, lowering herself onto the chair, smoothing her dress instinctively, though the cling of it still revealed everything it was meant to hide.

Papa Cain sat opposite her, folding his robe as he eased down. His knees were wide, casual, dominant. The space between them felt too close—intimate in a way that made her throat tighten.

His eyes locked on hers. The world outside the chapel disappeared.

It was just the two of them now. And the truth he was about to awaken.

Suddenly, his voice slid into the room like velvet over stone.

"Before I can mentor you on this path," he said, leaning forward slightly, "I'll need to ask you some personal questions. Deep ones. Is that alright with you?"

Katrina hesitated for just a second, then nodded.

"Yes, Papa Cain. I... I trust you."

The words surprised even her. Because the truth was—he didn't look like someone you'd trust at first glance. His features were sharp and gaunt, his skin weathered by years of sun and smoke. His nails were thick, roughened, his robe old and slightly frayed at the hem. His teeth weren't perfectly white. His beard was wiry and uneven. There was something almost filthy about him—something raw and ancient.

And yet... she couldn't look away.

He radiated something stronger than beauty. A pull. A gravity. Like he knew things about her body even she hadn't discovered yet.

"Tell me, Katrina," he said, his tone calm, almost casual. "Do you have someone waiting for you back home? A boyfriend?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question. Her hands tightened slightly around the hem of her dress.

"I... yes," she said softly. "His name is Ethan."

Papa Cain tilted his head slightly, watching her without blinking. "And is he... kind to you?"

She nodded. "He is. We've been together since last year. He's sweet. Gentle."

He leaned forward a touch, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving hers.

"And with this sweet boy," Papa Cain continued gently, "have you ever... shared anything special? Anything... intimate?"

Katrina's brow furrowed slightly, unsure what he meant. "We've kissed," she said softly. "Held hands... he tells me he loves me."

Papa Cain nodded slowly, then tilted his head, eyes fixed on her face.

"And... anything more?" he asked, his voice still soft, almost fatherly.

Katrina hesitated, brows drawing together. "I... I don't understand."

His eyes didn't move from hers. His tone sharpened just slightly—still calm, but now unmistakably direct.

"Has he ever touched you here?" His hand moved with purpose, hovering low between his legs—fingers spreading briefly, illustrating without shame. "Touched your pussy, Katrina?"

The word hit like lightning.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened.

She shook her head slowly, cheeks burning.

"No," she whispered. "Never."

A pause. Her cheeks flushed hot. She swallowed.

"No. We've kissed. Held hands. That's all. We're... waiting."

He smiled. Not mocking—just knowing.

"Waiting," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "Because you were taught that your body is not yours to enjoy yet."

She glanced down, ashamed. "I was taught it's wrong. That desire is impure... unless you're married."

Papa Cain nodded thoughtfully, then leaned in just a little more.

"Tell me, Katrina... do you believe that?" he asked. "That your own body should be silent until a ring is placed on your finger?"

Her throat tightened. She looked down at her hands, then back up.

"I... I don't know," she whispered. "I feel... confused. Scared. I haven't..." She swallowed hard. "I haven't done anything. Not really."

He tilted his head slightly. "But you've thought about it." She nodded slowly. Her voice was barely audible.

"We've kissed. A lot. But that's all. I was raised to wait until marriage. To save everything."

His expression didn't shift. He simply listened. Patient. Immovable.

Papa Cain leaned back slightly, studying her like a puzzle already half-solved. His voice lowered again, smooth as oil.

"Hmm... so he never touched you there." A pause. Then, gently— "But what about you, Katrina? Have you ever touched yourself?"

She looked away, her fingers tightening around the hem of her dress. The shame welled up before the words could.

"No," she said, more firmly this time. "Never. I was taught that it's wrong... that touching myself was impure. Dirty."

His gaze deepened, sharp as a blade wrapped in silk.

"It's so sad," he said quietly, "how they try to control you. How they twist something beautiful into something shameful." He leaned in just slightly. "You were never meant to live caged like that, Katrina. You were made to be free. To feel. To know your body."

She looked up at him, eyes unsure. "But... isn't that impure?"

He shook his head slowly, his voice like warm honey.

"The only thing that is impure," he said, "is denying yourself the joy your body was created to feel. Silence. Shame. Holding back when your soul is crying to be touched. Is what is really impure."

"Do you feel heat in your body when you think of Ethan?"

Her cheeks flared.

"Yes."

He leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced. His voice dropped a full octave.

"Where?"

She blinked. "Where...?"

"The heat, Katrina," he said. "Where do you feel it?"

Her lips parted. "In... in my chest. My throat. My..." She didn't finish.

He did it for her.

"Your pussy?"

The word hit like a slap and a kiss at once. Her whole body jolted.

"Yes," she whispered, unable to lie.

"Do you feel it now?" he asked softly.

She hesitated... then nodded.

Papa Cain's smile was small. Not smug—pleased. He could feel it now, just beneath the surface—her doubt cracking, her shame trembling. He was reaching her. Closer with every breath, every question.

Soon, he thought. She'll be mine. Open. Willing. Ready to be remade.

He leaned back slightly, voice steady, controlled, every word dropping like holy ash.

"When you feel your clit throb, Katrina... when that little pulse flutters deep between your legs—that's not shame. That's truth knocking."

She shivered.

"When the warmth spreads low in your belly... when your pussy starts to tingle and swell... when it gets wet, slick, aching to be touched—that isn't dirty."

He leaned in slightly, his voice thick and calm.

"That's your spirit whispering yes. That's your body wanting something you haven't even dared to name yet."

Her thighs pressed tighter together. Her breath came shallow. Her nipples ached beneath the dress, and all she could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, burning.

He kept going, slower now.

"Have you ever imagined a man's cock, Katrina?" he asked, his voice dropping, thick with heat. "Not his hands. Not his mouth. I mean his cock—thick, veiny, swollen with need. The kind that makes your breath catch just looking at it."

He watched her carefully, his words sliding between her thighs like a finger.

"Hard and heavy, the head flushed dark and slick, dripping pre-cum as it throbs just inches from your tight little slit. So close you can feel the heat radiating off it... pressing at your entrance, stretching your lips before it even pushes in."

She made a soft, helpless sound in her throat, her cheeks on fire.

"Tell me, Katrina... have you ever imagined something like that?"

"I... I've thought about it," she admitted, trembling.

"Thought about it sliding in? Splitting you open? Filling your tight, untouched cunt and making you moan like a good girl starved for cock?"

She clenched her fists. Her clit throbbed so hard it hurt.

"Yes," she whispered.

He let the silence stretch again. Her breath came faster. Her dress clung to her thighs.

Papa Cain moved slowly—graceful as a serpent—until his face was close enough she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

"You've been lied to, Katrina," he whispered. "Your body is not a curse. It is a temple. And your pleasure is the hymn it was made to sing."

She whimpered.

"You need to touch it, Katrina. It's waiting to be tasted... to be explored. Your body's been aching for this, whether you admit it or not."

Her eyes fluttered closed. Her head swam.

He touched nothing.

And yet... she felt completely naked before him.

He studied her—flushed cheeks, parted lips, the way her thighs pressed tight together—and his smile deepened.

"You're ready now, Katrina," he said quietly. "Your body's speaking. Your spirit is listening. It's time."

He leaned in just slightly, his voice a low, reverent whisper.

"I call it the Rite of Opening," he murmured. "An ancient ceremony of the flesh. It begins with breath... and ends with your pussy trembling, soaked in truth."

Chapter 3 - The Opening Rite The heart of the chapel pulsed with heat. Thick sandalwood smoke drifted through the air in slow, lazy coils, curling around the stone pillars like fingers. Deep crimson candles burned along the walls, casting shadows that danced like spirits over ancient carvings. The air was heavy—dense with incense, oil, and something deeper... something older. Katrina sat across from Papa Cain, their chairs drawn close, facing each other in the center of the dim chamber.

Papa Cain rose slowly from his chair, the loose folds of his robe shifting as he stood. His chest was partially exposed—dark, lean muscle carved by time and quiet strength. The fabric hung low around his waist, and beneath it, the thick shape of his cock already stirred—alive, swelling with hunger. But he didn't rush. He simply stood there, still and composed, watching her with the calm patience of a man who knew exactly what was coming.

Katrina's heart was thudding. And her mind—her mind was drowning in one thought:

Papa Cain's words echoing over and over: the thick, veiny cock—heavy, throbbing, already slick—pressing at her swollen slit, parting her tender lips, hungry to stretch her open. Big. Dark. Heavy. Veiny. Too thick for someone like her. And yet all she could think about was the stretch. The pressure. The raw, aching fullness.

She trembled, the shame curling up her spine like smoke.

"Okay," he said, his voice low and warm. "Close your eyes, Katrina... so we may begin your Rite." His tone wrapped around her like a silk ribbon—firm, inviting, impossible to resist.

She hesitated for just a breath, and in that pause, Papa Cain stepped closer, his voice softer now—like velvet wrapped in heat.

"Don't resist it," he murmured, firm and low. "Every shiver, every moan, every drop of heat—let it happen. Your body was made for this. Stop questioning. Start feeling."

He circled slowly behind her, the scent of oil and incense trailing with him like a cloak.

"You were made for this," he whispered. "To open... to receive... to awaken."

Her legs trembled slightly as she leaned back into the chair, her breath shallow, heart racing. With a slow exhale, she closed her eyes—nervously. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers clutching the hem of her sundress. She gripped it tighter as it rode up along her thighs, exposing more of her smooth skin. Her knuckles white against the fabric, her body already humming with what she knew was coming.

Papa Cain held up a blindfold.

"As it will be your first time experiencing this," he said softly, holding the silk blindfold between his fingers, "it's better that you don't see. Not yet. This way, you won't be distracted... or shy. You'll feel everything. You'll discover the depth of pleasure and freedom your body was always meant to know."

She nodded, heart pounding. He stepped behind her and gently tied the silk around her eyes. The world vanished into darkness. And just like that, her body became louder. Hotter. Realer.

"Now breathe," he whispered. "Let the outside world fall away. There is only you... and truth."

She nodded again, trembling.

Papa Cain's voice settled over her like dark velvet.

"Keep your eyes shut, Katrina," he murmured. "Breathe... and think about what we spoke of—a big cock, veiny and swollen, pressing right against your slit, demanding room it hasn't earned yet."

A soft gasp slipped from her lips. Even blindfolded, she could see it in her mind's eye: thick, heavy, the head glossy with need. Heat flooded her core. Instinctively, she squeezed her thighs together.

Papa Cain heard the faint rustle of fabric. "Good girl—feel that? Your pussy's already answering." A flush of shame—and pride—rushed up her neck.

"Breathe," Papa Cain said, his voice a dark hum. "Let go of everything but sensation."

A pause.

"Now... take your hands, Katrina, and bring them to your chest. Just the tips of your fingers—circle them around your tits. Slow... soft."

Her breath caught as her fingers moved upward, grazing the outline of her breasts through the thin sundress. Her nipples, already aching, stiffened harder under the touch.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now go around them—don't grab, just tease. Draw those circles. Feel how sensitive they've become."

A moan slipped past her lips as she obeyed. The brush of her fingers made her hips twitch.

"Now," he said, voice thicker, "pinch your nipples. Gently. Then pull."

She bit her lip, fingers tightening over the hard buds through the fabric. She tugged again, sending a jolt straight to her core; her thighs clenched involuntarily.

Across from her, Papa Cain's gaze burned. Beneath his robe the thick outline of his cock twitched, straining against the loose cloth. Without breaking eye-contact, he reached down and palmed the length of his cock through the fabric—slowly, possessively—pressing it to test the swollen weight. A low, approving hum rumbled in his chest as he watched her squeeze and pull at her sensitive nipples, each pinch making his shaft throb harder in his hand.

"Just like that," he murmured, fingers tightening around his own heat while she played with her breasts for him. "Feel how wet that makes you... and keep going."

"Feel that?" he whispered. "Every nerve in your body is waking up. You're not just aroused, Katrina—you're ready."

She whimpered softly.

"Yeah..." she breathed, barely audible—like the word had slipped straight from her cunt to her lips.

"Now," papa Cain went on, voice low and steady, "slide your hands to your thighs. Stroke upward, slowly, until your fingertips graze where you're pulsing the hardest."

She slowly obeyed, palms running over smooth skin, inching higher until her thumbs brushed the her damp pussy. Wet. Hot. She whimpered.

"Press your legs tight around those fingers," he ordered.

She did, trapping her own hands, feeling her slick heat spread. Her clit throbbed under the thin cotton.

"That's it," he praised. "Your cunt's begging to be noticed—don't make her wait."

Every breath came sharper now. Her body trembled; nipples ached beneath the dress.

"Tell me what you feel," he demanded.

"Wet," she whispered.

Papa Cain's fingers flexed around the thick length beneath his robe as he spoke, the fabric shifting with each slow stroke. "Good," he growled, squeezing himself while his gaze devoured her. "Let the flood come. You were made to soak for cock." Her hips jerked; the crude words, ignited a fresh, molten spark of arousal deep in her core.

"Now—open your knees just enough to give your hand room. Keep imagining the big cock right there, pushing, stretching, owning every inch."

She grabbed the hem of her sundress with both hands, heart pounding, and slowly dragged it up over her thighs—higher, past her hips, until the thin fabric was bunched around her waist. The air hit her bare skin, cool against the fever building between her legs. Then, with a soft gasp, she lifted one knee onto the chair, spreading herself wider.

Her pussy was completely shaved—tight, pink, and dripping. The lips were plump and glistening, flushed from the teasing, her clit peeking out and pulsing with desperate little twitches. Slick coated the inside of her thighs, proof of just how badly she wanted it.

She sat there, legs open, cunt exposed. For the first time in her life, she was fully on display—her tight, pink slit spread and glistening in the candlelight, nothing hidden, nothing left untouched by the eyes of the man before her. She had never felt so vulnerable... or so ready to be claimed.

Papa Cain's breath caught.

His eyes locked between her thighs, watching her fingers tremble over the wet heat of her untouched pussy. A deep grunt rumbled in his chest as he reached beneath his robe. This time, he didn't hide it.

The heavy fabric shifted—and the thick shape of his cock slipped free.

It stood hard and pulsing in his hand, dark and veiny, the head flushed and already slick with need. He gripped the base slowly, his palm wrapping tight around the girth as he began to stroke, measured and deliberate, eyes never leaving her soaked slit.

"Just look at you," he murmured, voice low and reverent. "Wide open... dripping... desperate."

Katrina's breath shuddered. Her thighs trembled, her soaked pussy fully exposed, aching and glistening in the candlelight. She bit her lip, caught between shame and desire, her voice barely audible.

"What... what should I do?" she whispered.

Papa Cain's eyes darkened as he wrapped his fist around his thick cock he'd freed from his robe. The heavy shaft jutted forward, silky and veined, and he stroked it in a slow, deliberate rhythm—never tearing his gaze from the glossy, dripping heat between her thighs.

"Touch yourself," he said. "Start at the slit—let your fingers glide over it. Feel how soaked you are. Let me hear that filthy sound your cunt makes when it's hungry."

Katrina gasped—uncertain, hesitant. "I... I've never—"

"You've waited long enough," he interrupted, voice firm but kind. "Let your fingers meet what's always been yours."

With shaking hands, her fingertips found the warm skin of her thighs, then the soaked heat between them. She gasped again. She hadn't realized just how wet she was—how ready. Her slit was swollen, soft, and dripping with need.

"Good girl," Papa Cain whispered.

Katrina whimpered, obeying. Her fingers slipped between her folds, warm and slick, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet chapel.

"That's it," he growled, jerking his cock slowly to the rhythm of her fingers. "That's what I want. Let her speak."

She moaned, fingers circling now, her clit swollen and throbbing beneath her touch.

"I... I didn't know it could feel like this," she gasped. "It's so sensitive... it feels so good..."

"Good girl," he rasped. "Now make it count. Slow circles. Right over the pearl. No rushing. I want your cunt soaking your hand by the time you're done."

She gasped, hips rocking, breath breaking apart as she followed his every word—lost in her own filthy awakening.

Her fingers shook as she circled her clit.

She circled harder, wetter, hips rolling toward her own hand, every crude word echoing in her skull: cock... stretch... soak. Shame melted into molten want.

"Touch it for me," he breathed, voice low and rough with command. The blindfold hid her eyes, but he drank in the sight of her wet pussy , glistening and ready. "Feel how wet you are, Katrina. Now think about the way that big cock will spread you, fill you, make you feel everything you've been denying."

A soft gasp escaped her lips as her fingers lingered between on her pussy, guided by the weight of his words. Slowly, she spread her pussy lips apart, feeling the slippery heat between them. Her fingertip slid a little deeper into the wet slit, and a moan broke free—raw and helpless.

Her other hand moved to her chest, gripping her tit through the thin dress, kneading it while her thumb rubbed the stiff nipple. "Fuck..." she breathed, hips twitching. The shame, the thrill, the filth of it—it all made her even wetter.

For the first time, she was letting herself feel her cunt the way it begged to be felt. And she was only just beginning.

"Oh..." she whispered, the warmth of her palm pressing into her chest, her thumb brushing over her stiff nipple. Her legs shifted, thighs parting slightly more. The air felt thick, sacred, and charged with forbidden heat.

Papa Cain watched her closely, his breath measured, his voice like silk laced with fire. "Don't run from it," he said. "Let it rise. Let your body speak."

Then—she heard a shift.

Cloth rustled in the dim air of the chapel.

Papa Cain's presence grew next to her. He stepped in, robe loose, body radiating hunger. She couldn't see him, but she felt him—felt the weight of his stare on her thighs, on the way her pussy glistened as her fingers spread her lips. The scent hit her fully now: musk, salt, heat. His cock—heavy and hard—hovered near her face, close enough for her breath to catch it.

"You feel that need building, don't you?" he growled low, voice scraping like heat against her skin. "That tight little cunt's been begging for this. Not shame. Not silence. Just the truth of touch."

She moaned softly, hips rocking forward, fingers dipping lower. She slid a finger between her folds, teasing her hole, gasping as her body pulsed around it. Her other hand gripped her breast, the dress already tugged down, her firm breast exposed. Her hard, pink nipple stood out in the open air, flushed and sensitive. She pinched it, rolled it between her fingers, and whimpered as pleasure rippled through her core.

Papa Cain didn't move in to touch her—he just stood close, his breath thick and steady, heavy with his big black cock, hanging, throbbing, inches away, as if waiting for permission. She felt the heat radiating from him, the unmistakable weight of his presence. The air between them seemed charged, and though she couldn't see it, she sensed the fullness of him.

"You're dripping," he said, voice thick. "And not from shame. That's your hunger, Katrina. Keep going. Let it burn."

"Open your mouth," Papa Cain commanded, his voice low and firm. "Prepare for the cock your body's been craving."

Katrina hesitated, lips parted, breath trembling. "But... what about my boyfriend?" she whispered. "I-I've never done anything like this... with anyone."

Papa Cain leaned in, his voice wrapping around her like smoke. "And you think this is betrayal?" he asked gently. "No, Katrina. This is preparation. You're being freed—freed to understand what it means to please... to serve... to truly give yourself to a man. What you learn here, you'll carry forever."

He paused, gaze heavy. "Wouldn't he want a woman who knows how to awaken every inch of him?"

"Yes..." she whispered, unable to say anything else.

He moved close, and she felt the tip press against her lips—warm, slick, pulsing. He was thick. Heavy. She opened her mouth and took him in, tasting raw salt and power as her lips wrapped around the swollen head.

"Good girl," he groaned. "Suck slow. Let your mouth honor what your fingers began."

Her hand never left her clit. She moaned around his cock, the vibrations traveling through him as her tongue circled the tip. Every suck was deeper, needier. Her own pleasure raced toward the edge.

"Feel him throb?" he murmured. "Match him with your pearl. Don't stop now."

Her fingers moved faster. Her mouth serviced his shaft, her moans wet and open around him. Slick sounds filled the air—spit, breath, cunt. It was chaos.

Then it hit.

Her orgasm exploded—though she didn't know to call it that. Her body locked, thighs clamping tight around her hand, and a sudden cry tore from her lips—raw, uncontrolled. She pulled off his cock just long enough to moan out loud, gasping, twitching, soaking the chair beneath her. Her blindfold was soaked with sweat, her lips swollen and glistening.

"W-what... what is—?!" she gasped, hips jerking, breath shattered. "Oh Yes—what's happening to me?!"

A rush of heat flooded through her. Her fingers were soaked. Her legs trembled. Her chest rose and fell in frantic waves. She pulled away from the rod just long enough to pant, her voice trembling with disbelief.

"I... I've never felt this before... I didn't know it could feel like this..."

Papa Cain leaned in, his voice low, soothing, firm.

"You've opened, Katrina," he said. "That... was your release. Your truth, your body singing its first real song."

She sat frozen, stunned, blinking behind the blindfold.

"I didn't know... it could be so strong..."

"And it's only the beginning," he said. "Now you know what waits inside you. And now... we go deeper."

Papa Cain's voice was low, steady, commanding—yet it carried something almost tender beneath the heat.

Katrina was still trembling, blindfold damp with sweat, her lips parted as she caught her breath. Her thighs glistened, her hands trembling against her lap. She had no name for what had just surged through her—but it had cracked something open. Something she couldn't put back.

He moved in front of her again—this time, he didn't take the chair. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees, slowly, deliberately, until he was settled between her parted legs. The stone floor didn't seem to bother him. His presence filled the space like incense—thick, warm, impossible to ignore.

Their knees nearly touched. His hands rested gently on her thighs, thumbs tracing faint circles as he looked up at her, blindfolded and trembling.

"Open," he whispered, tapping her thigh with two fingers. "Let me see the truth of you again."

She parted her legs slowly, shy at first, then fully—offering herself without knowing why, only that she wanted to. Needed to.

He exhaled like a man kneeling at an altar.

"You're radiant, Katrina. You're waking up."

She swallowed, body still humming. "I didn't know I could feel like that."

"You've only touched the surface," he said, leaning forward. His eyes never left her flushed, open core. "You're meant for more."

Her breath hitched.

"More?" she whispered.

Papa Cain nodded, his hands sliding to her thighs. His touch was warm, grounding.

"I'll show you now what it means to be satisfied. Not with shame. But with hunger. With joy."

He lowered his head—slowly, reverently—and placed a kiss on the inside of her thigh.

Katrina jolted at the sensation. His lips were soft, the contrast to her burning skin sending a ripple through her spine. Another kiss. Higher now. Then another.

She gasped, her hand reaching for the edge of the chair, grounding herself.

And when his mouth found her pussy, he traced along her soaked folds, savoring her—her whole body arched. She had never known such tenderness could feel so devastating.

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles on her clit, like he was unlocking something sacred, and her moans returned—breathless, broken, unfiltered.

A soft gasp escaped her lips—sharp, surprised. Then another, deeper this time, trembling through her chest. Her breaths came in short, fluttering bursts, each one laced with disbelief and rising pleasure. "Oh... oh—Papa..." she whispered, her voice barely more than air, head tilting back. A shudder rippled through her.

"Please... I—I don't know what's happening..." Her hips rolled forward instinctively, chasing the rhythm, chasing the heat.

Every flick of his tongue drew out another broken sound—soft whimpers, strangled sighs, a moan that started in her belly and melted out of her throat. "Mmmh... ahh... y-yes..."

The pressure built again—tighter, sharper, brighter.

And when she finally cried out, it was with disbelief and surrender, the sound of someone stepping through a door they never knew existed.

She collapsed back into the chair, legs still parted, chest heaving.

Papa Cain lifted his head, his lips glistening with her juices. His eyes locked onto hers, dark and unwavering.

"You taste so pure, Katrina," he murmured, voice thick with reverence.

He reached up, brushing a trembling strand of hair from her flushed cheek.

"That was freedom. What you just felt—that was you, unchained."

Chapter 4 - The Offering of the Flesh The cold stone floor bit into Katrina's bare knees and chest, unforgiving beneath her trembling body. Papa Cain's hands were firm but gentle as he guided her onto all fours, the weight of her curves pressed low and exposed. Her blindfolded eyes were cloaked in darkness, but every other sense flared—her warm skin slick with oil, the soft rise and fall of her back, the swell of her firm, round ass lifting high and begging to be claimed.

Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the flickering candlelight like a halo of gold around something fiercely impure. The curve of her hips, the tight arch of her back, the delicate line of her waist—it was a body carved to seduce, ripe and ready for fucking. Every muscle tense, every breath shallow, she was raw desire made flesh, a holy temple laid bare and trembling beneath his gaze.

Papa Cain moved behind her, the scent of Katrina's juices and sweat thick in the heavy air. His eyes roamed slowly over the perfect curve of her firm, round ass, lingering on the tight puckered asshole nestled between those smooth cheeks. Then his gaze dipped lower, drinking in the sight of her soaking, glistening pussy—pink, swollen, and dripping with need beneath the thin fabric bunched around her waist. He studied every inch—how the skin glistened under the flickering candlelight, how her body trembled in eager anticipation.

A slow, dark smile touched his lips as his gaze dropped lower, catching the unmistakable twitch beneath his robe—his thick cock stirring, pulsing with hunger, eager for the pure temple before him.

Reaching for the small vessel of warm, scented oil, he lifted it with deliberate grace. His voice was low, rough with promise as he whispered, "Prepare yourself, Katrina. This next experience will open doors you never dared to knock on."

His fingers dripped with the golden liquid, poised to anoint her, marking her body for the pleasure and surrender that awaited.

His fingers pressed between her cheeks, parting her ass with slow reverence. The tight puckered ring of her asshole spread open, exposed, trembling beneath his touch.

"Fuck," he breathed against her ear, voice thick with hunger. "Every hole in this temple is sacred... and yours is perfect."

The ache of cold stone mixed with the fire of his words, burning a trail down her spine.

His hands pressed firmly against her slick skin, warm oil slipping between his fingers as he massaged her round ass cheeks, spreading them wide with deliberate care. The golden liquid coated her skin, making every curve shine wet and inviting. His gaze flickered down, lingering briefly on the glistening rim of her tight asshole before sliding lower to the swollen, dripping heat of her pussy—both pulsing with desperate need beneath the flickering candlelight.

Then his palm came down hard, sharp—smack!—across one ass cheek. Katrina gasped, a heated moan escaping her lips as the sting bloomed bright and wild. Her body jerked forward, pressing into the cold stone floor.

Papa Cain's voice was low and hungry, a dark promise wrapped in every word. "That's it, girl. Feel every burn, every ache. This is your offering—your surrender."

Her breath hitched, cheeks flushing deep. "mmmmm."

He smirked, his fingers pressing firmly into her hip. "You like it, don't you? You filthy little slut, dripping and begging for every smack."

A soft, trembling "Mmmhmm" slipped from her lips, voice thick with shame and need.

"That's right," he growled, voice low and rough. "You're nothing but a dirty girl, made to take every ounce."

She whimpered, barely audible. "Yes... Papa."

"Say it," he commanded, hand raised, heavy with intent. "Say you're my filthy little slut."

Her voice was a breath, a surrender. "Yes... I'm your dirty.... slut."

His hand raised, heavy with intent, ready to land another smack that would seal her surrender.

Then his tongue was there—wet, warm, worshipful. As he flicked slow, deliberate circles around her tight asshole, Katrina jerked forward instinctively, a sharp gasp ripping from her lips. The shock of raw, unexpected pleasure tore through her shame like wildfire.

But Papa Cain's strong hand caught her shoulder firmly, pulling her back with quiet authority. "Not yet, girl. Stay still. Let me show you how to surrender."

His tongue pressed deeper, tracing the puckered ring with reverent hunger. Slowly, he began to eat her tight asshole, circling and flicking, exploring every inch as if it were a sacred, forbidden treasure.

Katrina's breath hitched again, her hips rocking despite herself against the unforgiving stone floor. "Papa... it feels so dirty," she whispered, voice trembling between shame and desire.

He pressed his lips briefly against her neck, voice low and rough. "You like feeling dirty, don't you, Katrina? You filthy girl—made to crave this, to soak in every filthy, sinful touch." "Shhh," he murmured close to her ear, "This is your body speaking—raw, hungry, begging to be claimed. Don't fight it."

Her moans grew softer, more desperate, as new jolts of pleasure pulsed through her. "It's... so strange... but so good."

"That's your truth, Katrina. Every taboo, every hidden craving—you'll learn to embrace them all."

Papa Cain's fingers, slick with oil and her own wetness, slid inside her tight asshole slowly, one finger first. The stretch was exquisite — slow, teasing, igniting a fire deep in her guts. A delicious, unfamiliar pressure unfolded within her, pressing against muscles she didn't know could feel so alive.

Katrina's breath caught in her throat, a soft gasp escaping as her body instinctively clenched, then relaxed under his patient touch. The sensation was sharp and tender all at once, raw and intimate, sending shivers rippling through her spine.

A slow warmth began to bloom deep inside, spreading from the slick finger outward like wildfire. Her moans grew louder, raw and unfiltered, echoing in the heavy air thick with incense smoke. Shame and pleasure tangled in a confusing dance — each stroke awakening desires she'd buried beneath layers of fear and innocence.

Her heart pounded fiercely as waves of trembling heat coursed through her, her body rocking subtly despite the cold stone floor beneath. The finger teased inside her tight, sensitive channel, coaxing open a hidden door she never imagined could unlock so much craving.

With every slow, deliberate movement, Katrina felt herself unravel — caught between trembling shame and a hunger that threatened to consume her whole.

He added a second finger, stretching her wider, coaxing her tight asshole to open fully. She trembled, hips bucking involuntarily, heat pooling in her belly, drowning out every thought except the filthy pleasure of being taken apart and worshipped.

"This gate was sealed by fear," Papa Cain whispered, voice thick and low. "But it's opening now... opening to fire, fullness, and freedom."

Katrina's breath came fast and ragged. Her body was aflame, every nerve singing as his fingers stroked and pressed inside her tight, slick hole.

Papa Cain's tongue shifted skillfully between the folds of her pussy, tracing slow, teasing circles over her swollen clit while his slick fingers continued their gentle invasion of her tight asshole. The dual sensations—hot, wet tongue on her pussy and deep, firm pressure in her ass—sent jolts of pleasure racing through her body.

Her breath hitched and shattered into ragged gasps as waves of orgasm crashed over her again, raw and overwhelming. The cold stone beneath her felt distant as her body trembled, caught in the fire of sensation that threatened to consume her whole.

"You're ready now," he growled, pulling his fingers free with a wet pop. The empty ache stretched her craving. "Ready for my rod again—but not in your mouth this time."

Chapter 5 - The Claiming "You've done well, Katrina," Papa Cain's voice rumbled low and reverent. Without warning, his strong hands gripped her hips and lifted her effortlessly from the cold stone floor. She stood trembling in his grasp, knees weak, heart hammering wildly beneath her ribs.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and untied the silk blindfold. Light flooded her eyes again—harsh and unforgiving. As her vision cleared, she took in his face.

His features were harsh and raw—sunken cheeks marked by deep lines, a crooked nose broken long ago, and a scraggly beard patchy with grey. His skin was weathered, rough like cracked leather stretched tight over a gaunt skull. His eyes, dark and piercing, burned with a fierce intensity that both unsettled and commanded her utterly.

Despite his ugliness, his gaze held an undeniable magnetism—powerful and unyielding—as if he could see through every layer of her soul.

Slowly, deliberately, Papa Cain began to disrobe. The flickering candlelight danced over his lean, sun-darkened body as his robe slipped open. Her breath caught in her throat when he revealed himself—his massive, thick cock, dark and veiny, heavy with undeniable need.

Her eyes locked onto it, wide and unblinking. The length was daunting, thicker than anything she'd ever imagined, the swollen head flushed a deep purplish red and glistening slick with pre-cum. Veins snaked down the shaft, pulsing with every slow throb, promising overwhelming fullness and power.

For a moment, her mind flashed back to her mouth—how it had wrapped around him, swallowing, sucking, tasting raw salt and heat. The memory sent a shiver racing through her body, both terrifying and thrilling. Could she really take more? Could she stretch and open herself wide enough for this—more than her mouth ever could?

A mix of awe and fear tangled inside her. The sheer size made her pulse quicken, her pussy clenching reflexively despite the growing ache in her ass. Yet beneath the fear was something darker—a desperate curiosity and hunger she didn't fully understand.

"That..." she whispered, panic and awe blending in her voice, "That will never fit."

His lips curled into a cruel, dangerous smile. "Shut up, slut. Your body will take every inch—and your filthy ass will beg for more."

Her body trembled violently. Every nerve screamed in warning—fear and desire tangled in a raw knot deep inside her. She felt fragile, like glass about to shatter or melt beneath the weight of what he offered. But the hunger was there too, blazing bright.

Papa Cain cupped her face, his voice low and unyielding. "You understand me? You will take it. Every inch. And you will love every moment of it."

Swallowing hard, her heart hammering, she nodded.

"Good girl."

"Now prepare my cock," Papa Cain ordered sharply, his voice edged with authority. Without waiting, he grabbed her by the hips and pushed her down onto her knees, pressing his thick, heavy shaft against her lips.

She opened wide, heart pounding, fear and hunger tangled inside her. Her tongue flicked feverishly around the swollen head, sucking hard and desperate, lips wet and warm.

Papa Cain groaned deep in his throat, fingers tangling roughly in her hair, holding her firmly as she worked him. The taste, the heat, the raw, urgent power flooding her senses ignited a fierce, primal fire deep in her core—igniting and readying her for what was to come. He looked down at her beautiful, flushed face—lips parted, cheeks glowing with shame and desire. I've got her, he thought with a dark thrill, this sexy, perfect girl moaning around my cock exactly where I want her. The thought sent a shudder of triumph through him as she swallowed hard and deepened her rhythm.

"Now," he whispered, pulling back, "on all fours."

Her body obeyed, trembling as she moved. She positioned herself with her firm ass raised high, pussy dripping, quivering with want and anxiety. She loved the shift in him—the way Papa Cain changed from soft and caring to commanding and taking what he needed without hesitation. That raw dominance ignited something deep inside her, making her even wetter, craving the fierce control he wielded over her body and soul.

Papa Cain parted her asscheeks, pussy lips glistening with oil and sweat. His eyes darkened with hunger as the thick head of his cock pressed gently against her tight, puckered asshole, slick with oil and her own wetness.

The first touch was teasing—slow circles, gentle rubs, waiting for her to soften.

Katrina's breath caught in her throat, a low moan escaping. The sensation was sharp, unfamiliar—a fierce fire and cold ice all at once.

She shuddered, muscles clenching tight, heart pounding wildly. Doubts flickered like shadows—would she break? Would it hurt too much?

But Papa Cain's steady hands soothed her hips, anchoring her shaking body.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he pressed the thick head of his cock against her tight, puckered asshole. The muscles trembled, gripping desperately as they stretched wide to welcome the heavy, veiny shaft. The sharp burn of the stretch mixed with a deep, forbidden pleasure that flared hot and fierce inside her.

Katrina's moans broke free, loud and raw—part pain, part desperate need—as her body fought and then surrendered to the overwhelming fullness. Each slow, deliberate push drove him deeper, her asshole stretching slick and wide around the thick girth, slick with oil and her own slickness. The exquisite pressure pulsed through her nerves, igniting waves of pleasure tangled with sharp, intense sensation that left her gasping and trembling.

A ragged, broken moan spilled from her lips, shaky and raw, like a whispered plea caught between tears and gasps. "Ah... Papa... please... ooohhh... slowly...." she murmured, voice trembling with desperate need as waves of pain and pleasure crashed through her body in wild, chaotic bursts.

Her body trembled uncontrollably as her hips rocked forward, instinctively chasing the heat, desperate to ease the burning stretch.

Papa Cain controlled the pace, thrusting slow and deliberate, letting her adjust and savor every inch.

Her moans grew louder, raw and desperate, shame and pleasure igniting every nerve.

She cried out, pushing back more boldly, learning to move with him—discovering a new, dark rhythm of sensation.

Katrina's breath grew quicker as she pushed back against him, instinctively learning the rhythm of the wild connection between them. Her body, still trembling from the earlier sensations, now moved with him in a desperate, heated dance—each motion pulling her deeper into the storm of need that swirled between them.

Papa Cain's grip tightened around her hips, his breath growing heavier as he guided the pace, no longer slow, no longer careful. His thrusts became harder, faster, the intensity of each movement making her body jump with every deep stroke. She cried out, the sensation too much to hold in—pleasure, pain, hunger all blending into one overwhelming force.

"Don't stop... please," she gasped, her voice breaking with the frantic need that bubbled up from deep within her. The pressure built inside her, like a coil wound too tight, her body wanting more, needing more. Every inch of her felt alive, aching, begging for release.

Papa Cain's voice dropped to a growl, dark and commanding. "You're mine now, little slut. You'll take everything I give you, and you'll love it." Papa Cain grunted in response, his thrusts driving harder, faster, making her moan louder. The heat between them was unbearable, and she felt every pulse of his movements, every push, every pull, as if he was claiming her in every possible way. Her muscles clenched around him, and she couldn't stop herself from moving with him, finding her own rhythm in the chaos.

Then the storm broke.

Waves of pleasure tore through her, overwhelming her senses. She gasped, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "Ahh... I can't... ohh... I don't know if I can take more," she whispered, her voice shaking with the intensity of it all. "Yes... ohh... this... it's too much," she murmured, her body caught between surrender and desire.

Tears mingled with sweat as her body convulsed in release.

Her moans echoed wildly through the chamber—raw, unfiltered, a hymn of surrender.

Papa Cain's voice was low and sacred between strokes.

Papa Cain's voice grew darker, more intense. "Now it's time to claim you completely. Get ready," he said, his words heavy with authority. Katrina froze, shock flooding through her. She hadn't expected it to escalate like this, the weight of his words hitting her all at once. Her heart raced, and her breath caught in her throat as she processed the full meaning of what he was about to do.

🔥 Chapter 6 - The Sacred Flower Katrina's legs were still trembling, slick with sweat and oil, her asshole twitching from the brutal stretch it had endured just moments ago. Her body was a mess—claimed, marked—but not yet completed. Not yet fully his.

Papa Cain stood above her, cock still hard, glistening with the slick sheen of her surrender. He looked down at her ruined innocence with a hunger that made her shiver.

His voice dropped, dark and slow. "Now it's time to claim you completely. Get ready."

Katrina gasped.

She knew what he meant.

Her heart slammed in her chest. She had saved it. That one place—her pussy—had always been for her future husband. She had sworn to wait. She had promised herself she'd be pure for her wedding night. But now?

Now her pussy was soaked. Throbbing. Pulsing with filthy need.

She glanced down at herself. Her swollen pink slit was glistening, lips trembling open like a flower in bloom, aching to be taken. Her clit twitched every time her mind flashed back to his cock opening her asshole—so thick, so black, so filthy.

And now... it was about to go inside her virgin pussy.

Katrina looked up at him, lips trembling, heart racing. "I... I was saving it," she stammered. "For Ethan. For our wedding. I thought if I kept it untouched, I'd still be... good."

The words sounded weak, pathetic even, as they left her mouth—especially with her legs spread open, her body already oiled, used, and leaking.

Papa Cain scoffed, stepping forward until his shadow swallowed her whole.

"Good?" he echoed, voice low and wicked. "I'll make you good for him, don't worry..."

He gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

"I'll open you like a little slut—stretch this sweet little cunt wide—so when he finally fucks you, you'll already know how to take cock properly."

Her breath hitched. Her pussy pulsed.

"You'll squeeze him just right. You'll moan like a well-trained whore. And he'll never know it was me who made you ready."

He then yanked her legs wider with his foot, exposing her glistening, swollen pussy. His cock twitched above her—dark, hard, already glistening.

"This pussy's been begging all day. Dripping like a filthy little whore."

Her breath hitched. Her body flushed with shame—and heat.

"You think one man was ever going to be enough?" he murmured, leaning closer, his breath hot against her ear. "No, little flower... you were meant for more than that."

His hand slid between her thighs, spreading her wider.

Katrina gasped, her breath catching in her throat as her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Her legs tensed, then melted open, hips tilting toward his touch like they needed him.

A low moan slipped from her lips—soft, trembling, helpless.

She hated how wet she was. How her pussy pulsed the moment his fingers brushed near it. How her body welcomed the filth.

"I shouldn't... I shouldn't want this," she whispered, eyes fluttering, shame burning her cheeks.

But the ache between her legs was unbearable now. Her pussy throbbed, slick and needy, and her clit twitched like it knew what was coming.

She looked up at him, pupils wide, lips parted.

"Please..." she whimpered, not even sure what she was begging for anymore.

"You were made to feel everything—every kind of pleasure. To be opened, stretched, filled... not just by love, but by raw, aching need."

He dragged the head of his cock along her wet slit, slow and deliberate.

Katrina shivered violently, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her whole body jolted from the contact. The swollen lips of her pussy twitched under the teasing glide, and her clit throbbed so hard it almost hurt.

Her back arched slightly off the altar, hips lifting as if her cunt was chasing the pressure, begging for more. She clenched around nothing, her tight little hole fluttering, aching to be filled.

A helpless moan spilled from her mouth, broken and needy.

"Oh... Papa Cain..."

Her voice was barely a whisper, but the raw hunger in it said everything. Her pussy was alive—wet, swollen, throbbing, dripping.

"This isn't about betrayal," he whispered. "It's about becoming who you truly are... someone who surrenders. Someone who receives."

He leaned in, his voice like thunder rumbling through her chest.

"As for your future husband..." he sneered, "he'll have you, don't worry."

He lowered his gaze to her dripping cunt, then tapped the thick head of his cock right against her swollen slit.

Katrina jolted.

A shiver ripped through her as the contact sent a sharp pulse straight to her clit. Her hips twitched. Her body betrayed her—squirming under him, pussy fluttering in anticipation.

"But not as some precious untouched virgin," he growled. "He'll get what's left... after I've stretched this tight little cunt wide open—after I've filled it with my filth."

He tapped her again, harder.

She moaned—sharp, breathy, shameless.

Her pussy throbbed, desperate for more, and her thighs trembled around him.

She moaned. "You hear me?" he barked. "You're gonna walk down the aisle one day with my cock still echoing inside your pussy."

Katrina whimpered, but her hips lifted off the stone, desperate for more.

"You'll take his cock and smile like a good wife," he growled, voice thick with venom and lust, "but you'll be thinking of me. Of how I broke you first."

He pressed his big veiny cock against her tight pussy, the heavy weight of his cock nudging into her slick heat, spreading her folds slowly—deliberately.

Katrina gasped, her whole body going rigid, then melting under the pressure. Her breath caught in her throat, hips trembling as her pussy responded, clenching with helpless need.

"You'll remember the way you squirted like a filthy little bitch," he hissed into her ear, "when I claimed what was never his to begin with."

Her moan was raw, involuntary. Her eyes fluttered shut, shame flooding her cheeks—but her legs opened wider.

Her pussy throbbed.

Her voice cracked, low and needy. "I... I want it..."

Papa Cain sneered. "Say it right, little fucktoy."

Shame surged through her, but so did raw, burning desire.

"Please... fuck my pussy, Papa Cain... fuck my virgin little cunt."

He growled, his cock twitching in response. "There she is..." As he pressed the thick head of his cock right against her soaked slit, letting it rest heavy between her trembling folds.

"Look at it," he ordered, voice low and rough.

Katrina's eyes dropped, breath catching the moment she saw it—felt it.

It looked even more massive, blacker than impurity, the swollen tip glistening with pre-cum as it nudged against her softness. Her delicate pink lips quivered around it, dwarfed by its sheer size.

It looked like it had no business being there—like it didn't belong anywhere near her innocent little pussy.

And yet her body pulsed for it. Her pussy throbbed, aching to be opened, wet and twitching with filthy anticipation.

She couldn't look away.

"It's not going to fit," she whimpered. "You're too big..."

Papa Cain grinned cruelly. "Then let it stretch you."

He rubbed the thick head along her slit, coating it in her juices. She cried out when it touched her clit, her hips bucking involuntarily.

"Fuck—please..."

He lined himself up. One hand on her hip, the other guiding his cockhead to her untouched pussy. He pushed forward slowly, letting the head kiss her entrance.

She tensed. The pressure was unbearable.

Then—pop.

Her hymen tore.

"AHH—!" Katrina screamed, nails digging into the floor. Her eyes widened in shock, pain lighting up her whole body.

"Easy," Papa Cain murmured, "It's just the seal breaking. Let it happen."

He didn't stop. He kept pushing, stretching her pussy open inch by inch. Her inner walls clamped down on him, fighting the intrusion, but the slickness helped. Her body betrayed her. She was so wet.

"It burns... oh Fuck, it burns," she sobbed.

"Because you're tight," he growled. "Because that sweet little pussy's never had a real cock in it. That pain? That's me breaking open your sacred little flower... the way it was always meant to be."

Her head fell back. Her thighs shook violently. She could feel every thick vein dragging along her virgin walls, every twitch of his shaft as he pushed deeper.

He was inside her. Fully.

She couldn't believe it.

Her pussy was stretched to the edge—stuffed with his massive cock.

"You feel that?" he growled. "You're no virgin anymore. This cunt belongs to Papa now."

Katrina moaned. The pain was still there, but so was something else. Something deeper. Pleasure—hot, uncontrollable, filthy.

He began to move.

Slow strokes at first. Deep, measured, grinding against her womb. She gasped with every thrust. Her pussy clenched him, milking, squeezing. The stone floor beneath her was slick with sweat and fluids.

He began to thrust.

Each stroke stretching her open, grinding against the raw nerves of her tight, virgin cunt. His thick cock dragged along her inner walls like it owned them, claiming space that had never been touched before.

Katrina cried out, her breath ragged.

Every time he pushed in, her pussy clenched tighter around him—fluttering, squeezing, as if trying to hold him there, to pull him even deeper.

"Ahh—Papa... fuuuck," she moaned, hips rising to meet his, her body moving without thought. "It feels... it feels so full..."

Her voice was a broken mix of shame and filthy pleasure.

Papa Cain grunted, watching her squirm beneath him, her pussy milking his cock like it was made for it.

"You feel that?" he growled. "That's what your little hole was built for—taking this cock, stretching around it, learning to love being used."

She whimpered, back arching, her moans louder now.

"I love it," she gasped. "I fucking love it..."

Her legs wrapped weakly around his waist, her cunt soaking, gripping him with every thrust—tight, wet, desperate.

Papa Cain's growl deepened.

He grabbed her hips and began to move faster—harder—slamming into her with heavy, relentless strokes that made her body jolt against the stone.

Katrina cried out, the sound raw and high-pitched.

"Ohhh—ahh! Papa! Fuck—fuck—"

Her moans echoed off the walls, wild and unrestrained, as her pussy clung to him, drenched and twitching.

He fucked her like he was branding her from the inside—his cock pounding her open, deeper, deeper still.

She was lost in it. Shaking. Shattered. Loving it.

And then... he stopped.

Katrina blinked, dazed. "W-What happened?"

Papa Cain said nothing.

Instead, he reached for the wax-covered ritual plate. From it, he took the long, thick candle—not smooth, but textured with ridges and ancient markings, each groove designed to awaken something deeper.

It was still warm from the flame, its surface slightly uneven—rough, intimidating, sacred in the filthiest way.

"What..." she whispered. But her asshole twitched.

"Yes," he said.

He coated the candle in her dripping pussy juice, making it shine. Then, with one hand still gripping her hip, he pressed the candle tip to her rear entrance. Her eyes went wide.

"You're already mine here," he whispered. "Now you'll feel what it means to be truly claimed."

The candle slid in.

Her asshole gave way, already trained from before, but the sensation of being filled in both holes at once—

"AHHhhhhh—FUCK!"

She screamed, back arching off the floor, body convulsing.

His cock still buried in her pussy, the candle now lodged deep in her ass, Katrina began to lose her mind.

She was full. So full.

"Papa! I—oh fuck—fuck—my pussy can't take it!"

Her voice broke. Her body trembled.

And then she came.

She came hard.

Squirting. Screaming. Soaking his cock in a gush of hot, uncontrollable release.

Her pussy spasmed violently around his shaft. The candle twitched in her ass, pressed deeper by the flex of her muscles.

Papa Cain didn't move. He held her there, cock deep, watching her fall apart.

"You feel that, my little slut?" he whispered. "That's your soul opening."

She couldn't speak. Her mouth hung open. Her body shook. Her pussy pulsed around him like it never wanted to let go.

He pulled back slowly, just a few inches, dragging the head of his cock along her stretched, slick canal. She gasped. Her body jolted again.

"Not done yet," he said darkly.

And then—he thrust back in. Hard. Deep. Filling her again.

Katrina cried out, her back arching off the floor as the sudden force of his cock slammed into her soaked pussy. Her body jolted under him, already sensitive, already aching—and he didn't slow down.

Papa Cain took her without mercy.

He fucked her with a punishing rhythm, hips crashing against her slick thighs, every movement rough, claiming, unstoppable. She barely had time to breathe before he shifted his angle—taking her deeper, harder, elsewhere—as if her whole body was his to own.

He moved between her pussy and asshole with practiced control, as though testing every inch of her—claiming her fully.

Each thrust made her moan louder, her body quaking with pleasure, her mind lost in the sheer filth of it. There was no more hesitation. No more resistance. Just her—opened, shaking, and begging for more.

Her mind spun. Her body trembled. She had no idea where he was inside her anymore—only that she was full, used, owned.

She came again—screaming this time.

Her pussy clenched violently, waves of pleasure tearing through her. And before it even faded, another built up behind it. His rhythm changed, angled cruelly, perfectly, as if he knew exactly how to pull another orgasm from her destroyed little body.

"Papa—ohhh—ahh—Papa, I can't—!" she sobbed, voice breaking.

But she could.

Her legs shook. Her lips trembled. And she came again—harder.

Her cries echoed off the stone walls, lost in the dark sanctuary that now smelled of sweat, sex, and surrender.

🔥 Chapter 7 - The empowerment His pace was brutal now—relentless.

Katrina could barely breathe. Each thrust slammed through her, shaking her body against the altar stone, her moans rising and breaking into gasps. Her thighs trembled, her body soaked with sweat and oil, her pussy still dripping from the rituals that had already torn her open.

Papa Cain grunted above her, deeper in voice and breath than ever before. His hands gripped her hips tight, pulling her back into every final, punishing thrust.

She could feel it—his body tensing, cock twitching, the rhythm growing erratic.

He was close.

The way he moved became almost reverent—devotional. Like her body was a sacred offering. Like he was about to spill something more than just seed.

And then, suddenly... he stopped.

He pulled out, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, sweat trailing down his brow. He looked down at her trembling body—open, flushed, waiting.

"On your knees," he said.

Katrina obeyed instantly, limbs weak but willing, hair falling messily over her face as she knelt before him.

His cock hovered inches from her mouth—slick, dark, and pulsing.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She did.

Papa Cain stroked himself slowly, his breath catching with every movement, his eyes never leaving hers. The air around them thickened with silence and purpose.

"Open your mouth," he whispered.

She parted her lips.

Moments later, his body jerked. His voice broke into a groan.

"Open wide, you little chapel whore," he growled, stroking the last inches with a snarl. "Take it—take every drop like the sacred filth you crave."

The first burst hit her lips. Then her cheek. Then her tongue.

"You love this, don't you?" he spat, voice shaking with release. "Being marked... blessed... used like the dirty little vessel you are."

Katrina moaned softly, lips parted, chest heaving. She didn't flinch—didn't turn away. She welcomed it.

She felt it—thick, hot, and heavy—splatter across her tongue, her cheek, her lips.

It was warm, almost startlingly so, with a weight that lingered as it dripped slowly down her skin. The scent was musky and raw, a potent reminder of what she'd just been given.

It clung to her—her mouth, her chin, the corner of her jaw—like a final seal.

She didn't flinch.

She closed her mouth around the taste, swallowing it with quiet reverence. Then, eyes half-lidded, she licked her lips—slowly, delicately—as if savoring something divine.

"It's... warm," she whispered. "It tastes... different."

He laid a single hand on her head, fingers splayed like a blessing.

"As of this moment, you're no innocent girl," he sneered. "You're the Chapel's filthy whore—my broken bloom, forever split wide and begging for more."

Her heart pounded. Her breath trembled.

And between her thighs, her pussy still throbbed—used, stretched, and completely satisfied.

She reached down gently, her fingers gliding over her slick, swollen folds—not out of hunger, but to soothe the trembling.

Each soft caress was a quiet attempt to calm the afterglow, to ease the ache that lingered deep inside her.

She had been taken. Filled. Marked. And now... she could finally breathe.

She didn't move.

Until he spoke again.

Papa Cain's hand lingered on the top of her head, fingers curling into her hair with a possessive grip.

"You did well today," he said, his voice low and heavy. "You were a good little whore—obedient, open, dripping for me just like you were meant to."

Katrina shivered at his words, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of being used. Her cheeks flushed deeper—not from shame, but from the twisted pride that bloomed inside her.

He leaned in closer, his breath grazing her ear.

"But this was only the beginning," he murmured. "Next time... you'll need to be even better."

He pulled back, eyes locked on hers, and added—voice like granite:

"Next time," he growled, "both of your holes will be claimed at once, little slut—come prepared to be used and freed by me... and who knows by whom else."

The words slammed into Katrina like a thunderclap—equal parts shock and forbidden, molten lust.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened, panic flashing through them for a single heartbeat. Did he just say... both? Was he implying... another man?

No—no, I must've misunderstood...

But even as the denial tried to form, her body betrayed her. A low tremble rolled through her belly, straight down to her swollen, stretched pussy—still wet, still raw, glistening with the filth Papa Cain had filled her with.

Her thighs pressed together, instinctively trying to hold in the pulsing heat that surged through her. Her cunt clenched at the thought, as if remembering the stretch of his cock and questioning if she could take more—two at once? That was impossible. Wasn't it?

How could I... fit two cocks? Inside me? At the same time?

Her dress hung uselessly on her body—clinging to the curve of her hips, riding up over her thighs. Her breasts pushed against the thin fabric, nipples rock hard, outlined like a tease. Her skin shimmered with oil and sweat, glowing like she had been anointed with sin itself.

She looked wrecked.

She looked perfect.

And now... she might be seen this way again.

By another man.

Another cock.

Her lips parted. She couldn't speak. Couldn't think straight.

What if he wasn't joking? What if I'm meant to take them both...?

Her body gave her away instead—shivering with arousal, her thighs twitching, her pussy clenching around emptiness. The thought of being used again... of maybe... being shared... lit a fire inside her that shame couldn't smother.

Her lips parted. She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

Finally, barely above a whisper, she asked, "Papa... d-do you mean... someone else? A-another cock... inside me?"

Without warning, Papa Cain gripped her hair and yanked her head back—firm, possessive, commanding and brought his mouth down hard against hers.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a claiming.

His lips crushed hers, and then his tongue shoved between them, forcing its way into her mouth, tasting her like she was nothing more than his used little toy. He licked across her lips first, slow and possessive, smearing the taste of his own filth on her skin before plunging his tongue inside—deep, wet, filthy.

She moaned into it, helpless, breath stolen, her mouth stretched open by his will alone.

He kissed her like he owned her breath. Like she didn't get to say no.

And when he finally pulled back, a string of spit still connected them—thick, warm, glistening across her lips like a mark, his voice was breathless but cold with certainty.

"Next week," he growled, thumb brushing her swollen lips, "you'll be back here. On your knees. Waiting." He leaned in, voice low and cruel. "And then... you'll know, little slut."

She didn't protest. She simply swallowed—slow, deliberate—feeling every heartbeat race down to her core.

She nodded—barely.

And she knew she would.

Papa Cain stood over her, chest rising slowly, his massive cock still hanging heavy between his legs—slick, spent, and glistening with the evidence of what he'd done to her. It dripped in front of her eyes, thick and shameless, like a final mark of ownership.

His voice was calm, but full of command.

"The session is finished for today," he said flatly. "Adjust your dress, little slut... and leave. You'll return next week—ready to be used properly."

Katrina nodded slowly, breath catching as she peeled her eyes away from the sight of him.

With trembling hands, Katrina readjusted her thin dress—the same one that had been tugged aside and rumpled during the ritual, never fully removed. The fabric clung to her sensitized skin, damp in places, a whispered reminder of what had just been done to her.

She smoothed it over her hips, still faintly quivering, her fingers trembling as they tried to restore a modesty that no longer existed. In the polished brass of a candlestick, she caught her reflection—hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.

She didn't look like the girl who had walked into the chapel.

She looked... changed.

Papa Cain watched from the shadowed doorway.

His gaze lingered on the curve of her firm now used ass, the sway of her hips as she fastened a simple belt. There was a possessive gleam in his eyes—satisfaction, yes, but something hungrier too, as if already plotting how he'd display her beauty when "others" came to witness.

Katrina paused at the threshold. A single backward glance met his stare—part fearful, part aching. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She turned, pushed open the heavy chapel door, and slipped into the profane world.

Papa Cain's fingers tightened around the doorframe. He let out a low breath, savoring the memory of her softness, already imagining the next ritual, the next set of eyes devouring her. How could he resist a vessel so intoxicating?

Outside, the late evening air wrapped around Katrina's flushed, tender skin—cool against the heat still radiating from deep within her. The sun had dipped low, casting long golden shadows across the path, and for the first time, she realized how much time had passed.

She had spent the entire day in that chapel—on her knees, on her back, bent over stone—getting used, stretched, and filled like a needy little fucktoy.

Each step toward home felt lighter and heavier all at once—lighter with the brief breath of freedom, heavier with the weight of everything she now craved.

As her house lantern flickered into view, one thought pulsed louder than the sound of her footsteps:

Next time... it won't just be him.

And the realization made her shiver.

Do you like this story? If you do, you may be interested to know that the author also has several other stories on the site that are available to the members of the EroticStories.com FanClub!
Click here to read more about the FanClub.

Request from webmaster Art:
Don't forget to vote for this story in the yellow voting box below!
Authors really appreciate the votes and it only takes a few seconds!

ESmail: Click here to send a private message to Josh and Bella (with ESmail, the site's internal message system)

Nalyd writes Sun 29 Jun 2025 07:12:

Really hot, you’ve inspired me to start writing again!

....................