Dishonour the Saints

The lighting is too bright, open daylight and brilliant Mirrorlamps. You wonder whether the Raving Artist intended to reveal his tricks – more plaster and circus paint – just like that. He certainly took great care in choosing the bound saints underneath. Each woman is a remarkable beauty, hardly the kind to blossom amidst the squalor of Corpser’s Point. Most look regal as well, and they carry the carnal humiliation of their martyrdom with poise, even as their toy relics break under the strain of use.

The Raving Artist himself destroys the paper tiara of Ursula, the Censorious Saint, by slapping her face with his cock. Beate, the Virgin Saint, wears an imitation of her armour of faith, crafted from thin fabric and thicker cardboard. Her legs are spread wide, and a curate claims her cunt. Althea, the Fructiferous Saint, has her ass invaded by the Noted Critic, while the Murky Sisters take turns catching her head under their long, button-down skirts.

The moans surround you, enticing you to hardness and debauchery. Another saint’s costume breaks under the onslaught, and for a few moments her **** panting is replaced by laughter. You are late, however, as you are barred from every hole not in use by chastity belts fashioned from leather and chicken-wire.

Then the curtains behind you part, and a pale woman, her short dress redder than her fiery hair, hooks her arm under yours. You do recognize those sea-red lips. ”I’m his favoured muse,” she whispers, anticipating your question. In doing so, she reveals her teeth, pearly white but as human as your own. She points at the Artist, now busy fucking the Censorious Saint’s throat. You introduce yourself to the Pale Muse, offering her your hand, but she grabs your cock instead.

You pull her into your embrace and grope her ass. Her lips taste like myrrh and sea-salt. Your hands snake under the hem of her dress, and her tongue rewards yours with a frenzied grapple. She does not wear anything underneath, and she is ready for you. ”Here?”

By way of an answer, you push her up against the wall. Then your cock pushes past her wet entrance. She moans, louder and louder, and smirks. The Raving Artist stands between you and his guests, the Sainted Ursula forgotten. Precum falls from his shaft, like snow over the Barenhaven soot. The Pale Muse convulses on your cock, and you rip her dress open to reveal her perky breasts. A dark crimson colours the other man’s face, and he starts to touch himself.

You fuck her faster and faster, and soon her climax overflows from between her legs.

She looks at you, with adoration in her eyes. ”I want to taste you,” she says, ”and I want you to paint me with your colours. Mark me as yours!{if A Priest = 1 } Anoint me!{endif}”

She falls to her knees, as soon as you set her down. You catch her (and yourself) stealing glances at the Raving Artist. He has paused his masturbation, but he starts again as soon as your cock parts her lips. You focus down on her face and tits, and she looks up at you with adoration.

Her slurping licks grow faster and wilder, and when she cups your balls, you no longer hold back. You pull back and shower her with hot cum. She catches another spurt in her open mouth and then lets you varnish her hair as well.

She licks you clean with audible delight, then a masked servant hands you a hot towel. You put away your cock, and step aside to admire your masterpiece. The Raving Artist races to take your spot and he, screaming, adds his paint to her eager canvass.

You have gained [1] Connected: The Starry Eyed

Your Connected: The Starry Eyed is now 1 - Occasionally invited.

Someone applauds, and then the Murky Sisters grab your arms and pull you away. You walk the exhibition again, trading witticisms and subtle barbs. And when you get ready to leave, they invite you to come see them at their atelier back in Barenhaven.