Blindfold her

She pales but nods her consent. He leads her to his bed and throws the raggedy covering aside. You leave her to his touch, their hands between each other’s legs, and search for a suitable blindfold. They moan behind you as you search the room, the once-expensive wardrobe and shelves filled with stacks of yellowing books and assorted refuse.

Your cock, hard and naked, bobs with each step.

Rough-spun shirts and worker’s boots. A second set of vestments, even more ratty and tattered than the one flowing limply from his gangly form. You find his stole, solid white fabric embroidered with moth-eaten purple silk. It rests over an oily painting, the canvass unfurled and the brushstrokes brilliant despite the dust. A sea of golden light shines down the billows of blue sky. This Sun who flashes through the head and paints the shadows green and red. A Sun to eat the fleshless dead.

Pass then, pass all!

You cry, remembering a faraway and nameless city.

"Not I," says the Priest-In-Rags, thrusting behind your back.

A shudder runs down your spine as you take hold of the makeshift blindfold. Their moans mix with the thrum of the City outside. Your touch has disturbed the painting, and the colours on the crinkled canvas seem to move. It rings with their arousal as they beat the bell that beats to hell.

You turn around, content to watch for now.

They are upright on the bed, he embracing her from behind. The Harried Housewife has her eyes closed, but her mouth hangs open. She screams when he tweaks her peaks and moans when he guides his shaft back into her wet opening.

{if A Priest = 1} You preach. It comes over you, an urge you have not felt since before your first meeting with the Priest-In-Rags set you on the course that led you here. Words flow to the rhythm of his thrusts, and her moans echo your rising voice. The Shattered God demands devotion, from his shepherds and more from their sheep. She shudders when you demand hers, when you order her to kneel and take away her sight.

{else} You preach. It comes over you, an urge as alien to you as starlight is to a blind man. Words that flow to the rhythm of his thrusts. Her moans echo to give your rising voice meaning. You preach your godless god, demanding surrender where religion is satisfied with obedience. She shudders when you call on hers, when you order her to kneel and take away her sight. {endif}

The Priest waits for your nod before he gives the order. "Open wide."

She does and is fed both your tips in turn. Running mascara mixes with spit and precum, shifting lines that look like paintings on her rose-coloured cheeks. A building on a craggy mountaintop, the summit surrounded by swarming fowl. {if A Scholar = 1} You are reminded of Basque’s Mirror Observatory, a rocky temple with its worshipful eyes cast towards distant stars.{endif}

"A sign." He sounds raspy, ragged and out of breath, as he refuses to take his turn.

You both step back, rubbing your cocks as you admire the blind canvass. Darkened spit descends on leathery wings to her heaving breasts. She lowers her head as if to avert her bound eyes. Arousal dews around her naked sex and you nod. It is time.

The Priest drags her to the bed and spreads her legs. You take the first thrust, she screaming for more as you give her your length. But you instead withdraw, leaving her begging and fingering. The Priest-In-Rags approaches to take a turn, each of you doing your best to surprise, confuse and delight.

Her screams turn into throaty moans and she writhes with lust, her body rocked by your switching cocks. You bury yourself deep as she massages her breasts, her every fibre designing to keep you trapped.

"It is you. I can feel it." She whispers the forbidden admissions. "Stay inside me. Fill me full with cum and make me thine."

You punish her transgression by forcing yourself to step away and reward her by caressing her neck as he enters her. Her warm lips welcome your fingertips and her peaks harden under your touch. Obvious arousal prickles her skin and her voice is hot and heavy, giving sound to what his twisted face expresses in silence.

The Priest-In-Rags knows better than to reveal himself by speaking, or to claim what is not his. He pulls out, his crown slick with her pleasure, too close to hold back.

"It is you. I can feel it." She cums again as soon as you take his place. The outside of her womb is spattered but you do not fill the inside yet. "Make my body pure!" Her voice turns jubilant. "Be my guide from camp to camp: Be my shade from well to well! Grant beneath the Liar stars for me to hear the Prophet's brass bell. Give me knowledge to endure, and bring thee out the Life again."

You, moving fast and faster, see the spiral but miss some of her words. The needs of your body and your aching cock seize control. Satisfaction comes not as relief but as endless, painful need. The explosion leaves you weak and empty, kneeling on the floor before her, watching semen leak from her divine cunt as your chest rises to catch your ragged breath.

{if A Heretic = 1}

A Mountain Fort Ruled by a Pretender King

The ABACINATE weeps for you

{elseif An Occultist = 1}

A Mountain Fort Ruled by a Pretender King

The FIRST weeps for you

{else}

A Mountain Fort Ruled by a Pretender King

{endif}

"And thou shall make my soul a Glass where eighteen thousand aeons pass. And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew upon the grass."