Practice

You stand to answer her question by showing her your cock.

"Practice it is." She sighs an exaggerated sigh, already bending over. "I might have guessed." She licks her lips, the tip of her tongue soon reaching your purple head. "My husband does hates me coming home late. All exhausted and sticky." She cups your balls as she bends. "Ah, well..." Her mouth opens and slurps you inside. "You, lock the door!"

The hallways outside are not yet deserted. From time to time, lonely steps shuffle past, staff and students occupied with late-night research – or the last members of her audience, slow to wake from sorcerous confusion. They have, in leaving, closed the brassbound oak behind them, but the Priest-In-Rags does hurry to turn the key.

He soon returns, out of breath, and positions himself behind her, stroking his cock and groping her ass. Her skirt rises with his touch, until his fingers tease her lower lips apart, until she slips and squirms away.

"My husband really doesn’t appreciate other men using me like that. You are a man of the cloth, you understand." She grasps him, moving her fist along the shaft. "And there are other ways to satisfy."

The Priest-In-Rags’ hands are on her hair, and she, half-****, slides down to her knees. He then takes your spot and her throat, fucking her face while she strokes your cock.

"Garrgh! Fuck! We..." She spits him out and sucks in air. Drool drops from her chin, her make-up smeared. "Revelation."

You strip her bare. The mannish blazer falls away and your cocks, both signed red by her lips, touch naked skin while you rip away the frilly blouse. Her nipples rise as stiff peaks, hardened by your groping. She moans when your hands wander lower, turning her short skirt into a belt. Warm wetness greets you between her spread legs, her nightwhisper-nothing underwear snapped in twain through thorough exploration.

"Condoms," she mumbles before the Priest claims her throat again. "Fu–aack! Lectern. Gargll – purse!" She spits, sighs and points. "I do need more."

You tear yourself away and search. A dark leather bag waits at the indicated place, but you do hesitate a little. She repeats the order, maybe, her words muffled by cock. Inside you find notebooks and sweets, a lily-white handkerchief and a resin-cast phallus. Make-up and pens, letters and notes, one signed by a prominent politician. The box with condoms is at the bottom, and the two have changed location by the time you find it.

She is flat on her back, legs spread and splayed across the old desk in the corner. Not even wood but flimsily welded metal, its shine dulled by decades of student use. The Priest stands at one end, angling down his member to keep it inside her skilled mouth. You, hard as ever, approach from the other and slide a finger between her swollen lips. Arousal makes her shiver, and she leaves a sticky trail dripping from your tips. You rip the wrap and prepare yourself, allowing your tongue a taste of the shaven slit before.

"Fuck!" She curses and wiggles, closing her legs as she pushes the Priest away. "Condom!"

You show her your covered cock and she nods, exhaling, to welcome you inside. Her whole body, prickling skin and stiff peaks, shows gushing approval. The Priest then again takes her voice, his dick stretching her throat and a crooked hand groping her firm breasts. You, buried deep, take hold of her leg and give her the hard thrusts her pussy craves.

"Do you feel it? The revelation?" He asks while slapping her mouth with his spit-slick length. "’Cause I’m close to bursting and have not felt what she keeps between her legs."

You feel her tightness and the shivers, the way her body responds when you slap her with your balls.

And she answers for you: "Fuck! Fuuuuck! Fuck me. Fuck! Fuck me both." She points. "Condom. And take turns."

Her legs open wide, but she keeps you inside while you hand him one and he prepares himself. She sighs when you pull away and moans when he enters, louder on your turns. The sounds, her voice and him slamming into her, keep you hard.

It is slow work, and she says as much: "What a strange ritual. The skin of the world is pierced, but the two of you are but workers in the divine garden. Heavy with pollen but unable to dance. Harder!"

The Priest-In-Rags obeys all too well. "I can’t – I’m close."

"Outside. Cast off your skin and mark mine. Cum for me. Spent yourself on me! Mark me there." She points at her stomach just above the belly button and then grabs him to enjoy the last **** thrusts. "Make me! Mark me. Make me come!"

He does, snorting like a bull as he rips the condom from his cock. She helps him aim and helps him rub. Until he explodes and leaves her covered, his seed running downwards in long, sharp lines.

"Do you see it yet?" she asks, spreading herself open and offering herself in invitation. "Even the language of signs and learned abstraction fails where emotion answers. "Fuck!"

You accept, your cock asking the questions your human tongue cannot pose.

She answers with throaty moans, breasts jiggling and legs twitching. Then the Priest uses her mouth to clean his soft cock and you enjoy lasting longer. Her skin tingles from your touch. And she, freed from him, locks you with her eyes.

"Cum for me."

You fuck her faster.

"Cum for me! Slough off false skin and cum for me! You can..." She lifts her hand, weakly, to touch your chest. "Well..." Her eyes open again and her breathing softens as she finds your cock. "Outside! A river!" She peels the condom away and rubs your head. "Fat from springtime thaw!"

The taste of iron is on your lips and the air smells like her perfume – ambergris and march bread heavy with rose water. You can feel it welling up inside you, knowledge and release.

"Cathouse whispers." Her quicker strokes coax out your cum. White seed cast as falling snow, driven above the bird nest tangle of her well-used sex. "Come here." She pats the air to her side. "Come an’ lemme lick you clean."

Both of you join her, groaning and grateful, as her warm mouth again envelops you in turn.

"Look." She stretches while you put away your cocks. "Look!" She points.

You and he intersect on her naked body, the flowering sigils smeared but legible. Uneven rings and the mirror sign. Poetry of little words, cut short by your spent body. She smiles as she repeats her feelings, making you remember what base need had you forget.

You have gained [a] Wise Word

You now have {@0 Wise Words} Wise Words

"A disappointment. Almost" Her voice is calm, but a mad light shines in her eyes. "I need to – there is already so much lost. The words, oh Saints, the words." She searches her handbag, marked and naked, for her notebook. "You may leave now. Thank you, but it is done."

Some time has passed

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

The Priest’s laughter sounds hollow as he grabs you by the sleeve. "Come." He shrugs. "She knows where to find me." A sweaty sheen has returned to his gaunt face. And his breath, hot on your ear, smells like almonds as he whispers his address. "And now you do as well. Come find me there, First Officer, if you’re so inclined. I sense a kindred soul and a valuable ally. Maybe you will teach what she hoards for herself."