The Nun Pt. 06

nb: this was written in collaboration with thinkingwithmycock

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Syncletia's cunt spasmed involuntarily at Brother Faustus' final words, a briefly recalled vision flashing again through her mind's eye, looming shadows of crucifix and horns. Faustus fixed her with his gaze as the tall amazonian bimbo's body shuddered in a silent climax emanating from deep inside her rippling core. The bookish Brother with the monster prong had pounded many a contraction out of the nun's ravenous quim, and also knew her to possess a mind capable of generating its own orgasmic energy with little need for external aid; but Syncletia's Christfall-struck body's apparently unbidden response to this new and as-yet unknown religious anomaly was instantly notable to the convent's ever-observant master librarian. Faustus paused as the waves of Syncletia's climax receded. "Are you prepared to take on this responsibility, Sister?"

Stifling the remnants of a moan, Syncletia's eyes flashed, the taut sinews of her body tensing subtly underneath her flushed golden skin as she reasserted control over herself. "Of... of course." A fat dollop of pearlescent precum dripped from the tip of Faustus' still throbbing shaft, splattering quietly on the floor. Bending at the waist, twerking the globes of her ass upwards in counterbalance, Syncletia leaned forward to place her pouting lips at Faustus' glistening bellend, her breath hot. "Entrust me with this task, Brother. There's no set of balls on this Earth that I can't drain, no slit I can't scent out. Be it cock or cunt, I will lead them all to the glory of the Lord."

Faustus groaned as Syncletia hilted him deep in her gullet, her puffy cocksuckers parting to hungrily slurp down the length of his throbbing shaft, her throat bulging and contracting as she impaled herself on the librarian's monster member. Faustus' hips bucked forward as Syclentia's fingers began to pull and play at his full ball sack, insistently tugging him deeper into her slavering mouth. The bimbo nun's blue eyes flashed behind the black opera mask, sloppy wet choking moans emanating from around the DSLs sealed tightly around the librarian's throbbing veins. "GLUUUrrrrrrkkkk!" Syncletia spluttered, two-fisting Faustus' cock around the base of its wrist-thick root and throwing her head back and forth along the length, skull-fucking herself insistently upon his dong.

Faustus's slender hands scrambled to grab hold of a shock of Syncletia's exposed blonde upcut, but the bimbo nun could not be tamed so easily, and continued to hammer her throat like a piston upon the length of the librarian's shaft. His glasses began to fog as sweat poured forth from his sinewy frame, bucking his hips now in counter-point to Syncletia's throatjob -- though the bimbo nun set a ferocious rhythm, Faustus was doing his best to maintain pace, his thrusts belying his otherwise unremarkable physique. Faustus' robe swirled behind him as he attempted to step forward and assert more control, leveraging Syncletia down into the floor, her powerful leather-encased thighs splayed out flat below her in frog pose, her golden buttocks, effectively exposed by her string sling, rippling with each counter-thrust, fluids from her slit smearing across Faustus' office floor.

The librarian's attempt to assert control over the sluttish sister only led her to redouble her efforts, new floods of drool spilling forth along the length of Faustus' vascular shaft as she braced herself with her hands against the floor, back arched upwards, aligning her throat as a vertical bottomless pit for Faustus's prong to plumb the depths of, her head continuing to bob upwards. The leather of her wimpled forehead pressed against the librarian's lower abdominals as he grasped the back of her head more firmly now, gasping as he bent over the nun and rutted into her mouthhole.

With a roar that must have broken the silence in the adjoining collections room, Faustus' swollen balls unloaded their seed deep into Syncletia's gullet, his hands gripping her head and holding it in a tight seal at the base of his member, his pc muscle throbbing with each thick emission. After many long minutes, Faustus finally relaxed his grip, staggering back, but Syncletia's lips remained locked in a seal around his flagging cock, her blue eyes -- slightly bloodshot now from the rough skullfuck -- continuing to dance defiantly up at him as her hidden tongue and throat muscles massaged at the librarian's still-hilted shaft. With a wet pop and another flood of drool that spilled forward to splatter into the valley of her cleavage, Syncletia slowly withdrew Faustus's member from her throat.

"Thank you for helping me complete my day's penance, Brother," Syncletia rasped wetly, massaging Faustus' root with both hands, smearing its wet purple mushroom head across her lips in a sloppy devotional kiss, her tongue fishing at the librarian's piss slit in search of any last dollops of jism. Finding Faustus fully drained for the moment, Syncletia allowed the twelfth monstercock she had serviced that morning to come to rest laying against her neck, curled up against the hollow of her clavicle like a snake.

"I'm fucking ready to begin the day's work now. Take me to those Onanite goonpigs and I will find the source of this new portent, and bring it to salvation for the Cock of Christ."

To get to the onanists, you had to go into the basement.

There were catacombs in the monastery, of course. And lurid tales of what might lurk down there. But there was a regular basement too. Even though regular was probably the wrong word.

Syncletia, belly full of Faustus' cum, was in the lift going down. A large freight elevator, it had huge doors and a grille on one end. She hadn't been down here for a while. They tended to try to keep her out of it. The onanists had important work to do, and liked to keep distractions to a minimum.

Syncletia could be very distracting.

With a booming sound, the lift stopped, juddered, and then the freight door opened, sliding into the roof. Behind the grill, Spyro, master of the onanists, was there to welcome her.

Spyro was arguably the most devout of all of them. A prelapsarian, now fifty, he had taken to sexual augmentation post-Christfall with an almost zealous passion, but his tastes had always tended towards the submissive. Not necessarily a voyeur, but a convinced porn addict and stroke-zombie, he had rabbit-holed himself into cycles of dependency so self-cancelling and destructive to his ego that he had been practically beatified. Syncletia was a soldier of Christ; Spyro a living saint.

Spyro hauled open the lift's grille. Instantly, a fantastically thick gout of hot precum erupted from his cock into Syncletia's face.

'Thanks,' Syncletia said, grinning, doffing the opera mask and dropping it on the floor. If precum was going to be popping, she wanted it on her face.

'I would apologise, b-b-b-b but you know hh-h-how it is,' Spyro said. He gestured at his groin.

Syncletia smiled. 'Should I have brought an umbrella?'

Spyro, as master of onanists, led a most austere life. He favoured a long, high-collared leather coat, which always hung open. On his torso he sported an elaborate hauberk, a thing of trusses, glinting buckles, cogs, and winking computer interfaces. Further down, the apparatus broadened and jutted out into a mechanism both elaborate but not especially opaque in its function.

Fitted over Spyro's penis, slowly and methodically working its way up and down, almost like a pump or ventilator, a glossy sheath of glinting synthetic material writhed. Lubricated, glossy, the strip of grasped the thick column of fuck meat and automatically slid up and down the immense pole in a mechanical action. This was at the heart of the edifice erected around his groin.

Spyro's penis pump paraphernalia jacked his giant gleaming meat spear permanently in regulated rhythm, synchronised perfectly with his state of desire, to keep him suspended in bliss. He was edging, for ever, never needing to touch himself, always as close to God as possible.

Nearly a full thirty years in the harness, such an enterprise wasn't without its drawbacks, certainly. For one thing, metaphorically speaking, his brain had melted, slithered out of his ears, and crawled into the nearest drain a long time ago. Spyro wasn't exactly an imbecile, but some of the more elementary cognitive functions and processes had been relegated in order of priority over the decades. A permanent speech impediment, lolling tongue, and a rope of drool hanging over his beard were the most obvious effects. His facial expression was a carnival of tics and grimaces, the necessity of observing the most basic social protocols long having deserted him. His mind was at once the most complete and comprehensive repository of porn in existence, and a hopelessly incompetent bulb of addled jelly. He had seen, and was constantly consuming, every lurid act ever committed to film, beamed into his braincells by a set of screens that were attached to his hauberk and which floated in front of his face. The pleasure was infinite and never-ending, the price was a fraying thread of sanity.

Like a snail, he left a trail of precum wherever he went.

The demands of onanism were so great that all acolytes eventually snapped. A decade of porn worship and futile gooning of their dicks inevitably sent them into a catatonic brainlock. For some, holding onto a load for weeks, months, years, gave them such a flare of guilt and shame when they eventually orgasmed that they surrendered their sanity then and there. Others, better edgers, failed to process porn after a while. Most if not all of these ended up in the sanitarium, in a vegetative state. Fed gently through rubber tubes.

Spyro alone remined, at the top of his profession, never wavering in faith. The harness kept him honest. He was rumoured to be one of the most endowed prelapsarians, though in truth the monster length that jutted in front of him hadn't been measured in some time. A delicate homeostasis had to be maintained with Spyro's nonstop gooning that prevented anyone from getting too close to him.

If he ever orgasmed, god knows what would happen. It wouldn't be a brolly Syncletia would need. It would be a boat.

'Hello you fucking disgusting vile pervert,' Syncletia said, striding forwards like a predator and extending her hand.

Spyro flinched, assuming the whorish nun was going for his groin. He wasn't used to female contact, let along a bimbo fuckdoll whore as stacked as this smoking hot tattooed blonde. Another bolt of cum issued out of his cock and splattered into her gloved hand, filling it.

'Not seen you for a while, Spyro,' Syncletia said, sucking her fingers, 'mmmmm, you're a fucking donkey. Maybe I should come down here more often.'

The soft squelch of the tube of apparatus that was sensually jerking Spyro's mammoth fuck missile was all that could be heard.

'You'll b-b-be the d-ddeath of me, Syncletia,' Spyro said.

It probably wasn't a figure of speech. Spyro emitted a strange low sound, the mechanism on his behemoth dick slowed almost to an imperceptible stroke, and the harness around his ballsack clasped backwards tight. Proximity to the stacked latex nun was having predictable effects.

'NNNNNNNNGHHGHGHGHGGGGG!!!!!!!!!'

A fat bolt of precum thwacked against Syncletia, exposed, round tits. The blast was so hard that some of the splatter ended up on her chin.

'How's the goonpig life?' Syncletia asked, massaging the slick, gluey precum into her enormous globes.

Spyro shrugged, 's-s-sticky.'

'I hear you had an accident,'

'You could s-s-say t-that,' Spyro said, 'one of the brothers ascended,'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' Syncletia said.

'Well,' Spyro reflected, 'he came before he went. Shall we?'

Spyro turned and opened the door to the hall of onanists.