Higher calling

"Ohhh, Blessed Rod of Saint Pierre... fill us until we cannot think!"

The stone walls of the convent are cool against my bare thighs, but the air inside the chapel is thick enough to taste heavy with the sweet, musky scent of incense and dried lavender mixed with the unmistakable aroma of human seed. Sunlight streams through the narrow slit windows, casting golden bars across the altar where no crucifix hangs only a carved wooden phallus, smooth and polished by centuries of worshipful tongues.

I am Genevieve, a Sister of the Order of the Eternal Erection. My habit is not made of wool or modesty; it is constructed of thin, translucent lace that leaves nothing to the imagination, designed to catch the eye of any passing pilgrim. My sisters and I have taken vows of absolute surrender. We have no shame, no secrets, and certainly no thoughts that could distract us from our holy purpose.

"Sister Genevieve," comes a breathless whisper from the shadows. It is Sister Claire. She approaches me, her hips swaying with the practiced allure of a woman who knows her body exists solely to be claimed. Her habit has slipped low, exposing her full, swollen breasts, which glisten with the oil we use to make ourselves more inviting. "The pilgrims have arrived at the monastery gates. The Lord's messengers bring their holy tribute."

My heart hammers against my ribs not with fear, but with a desperate, hungry anticipation. "Then let us prepare the altar, Claire. Let us make ourselves ready for their divine burden."

We do not meet as equals; we meet as two vessels preparing to be filled. As we walk toward the main hall, we press our bodies together, grinding our slick folds against one another in a ritual of shared arousal. Our lesbianism is our strength; it allows us to understand exactly how to present ourselves, how to arch our backs, and how to moan in perfect harmony to drive the men into a frenzy of giving. We love each other deeply, but our love is a language of shared submission.

The heavy oak doors creak open. A group of battle hardened knights and weary travelers enters, their eyes immediately locking onto our exposed flesh. They smell of leather, steel, and potent masculinity. To them, we are not holy women; we are the consecrated whores of God, the living altars upon which they may sacrifice their seed.

"Welcome, holy messengers," I coo as the first knight approaches, his hand already fumbling at his belt. I drop to my knees before him, my lace skirt pooling around me like spilled milk. "We have been praying for your arrival. Our wombs are empty, our mouths are thirsty, and our spirits crave the salt of your salvation."

Behind me, I hear Claire's delighted shriek as another man seizes her waist, lifting her skirt to expose her eager cunt to the stale air of the chapel. The ritual has begun. The prayers have been answered. And as the first hot jet of divine cream hits my tongue, I know there is no higher calling than this.