Katrina and the wicked priests (Part 2 remastered into something hotter) (fm:threesomes, 13842 words) [2/3] show all parts | |||
Author: Josh and Bella ![]() | |||
Added: Jun 25 2025 | Views / Reads: 318 / 297 [93%] | Part vote: 9.69 (1 vote) | |
Katrina submits deeper to Papa Cain and Master Herod. They fuck her hard—using her pussy and asshole with no mercy. Double penetration, rough commands, and filthy pleasure mark her descent as she moans, cries, and cums like the obedient whore she’s becomi | |||
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Chapter 1 · Sweat & Secrets at the Doorstep Moon-washed puddles mirrored Katrina's wobbling reflection as she padded home, sandals squelching softly. The taste of Papa Cain cum still coated her tongue—bitter, thick, unforgettable. Dried streaks of cum clung to her boobs and chin, where drops had spilled as she'd tried to swallow every last filthy offering. The evening breeze licked her skin, cooling the tacky spots like invisible fingers tracing his path across her body.She was a vision of ruined beauty—eighteen years old, but glowing like sin herself. Her sundress clung to every curve: the tight dip of her waist, the sway of her firm, heart-shaped ass, and the soft bounce of her perky tits with every step. Drops of moisture kissed her skin, but they couldn't wash away the scent of what she'd done. Her long, golden hair hung in damp waves down her back, catching the moonlight like a halo worn by a whore-turned-saint. Her lips—plump, bitten, and still slick from what she'd just swallowed—parted as she breathed out softly, drunk on memory. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the walk, but from the ache between her thighs that no finger, no candle, no dream could satisfy anymore. Not after him.
Her body thrummed: nipples raw, throat bruised from gagging, used asshole aching in that proud, ruined way that made her clench around nothing just to feel the throb. Shame tried to whisper—filthy slut—but lust stomped over it.
The porch light snapped on. "Good heavens, look at you—soaked to the bone." Mom's voice fluttered with motherly concern, not suspicion. Lamp-glow revealed damp blonde strands pasted to flushed cheeks and wax freckles peppering her wrinkled dress.
"Humidity's a killer tonight," Mom sighed, fussing with a lavender tea-towel against Katrina's forehead. She caught the faint spice of sandalwood and assumed it was chapel incense.
Dad ambled over, chuckling. "Sweat like that after church? Sounds like Papa Cain's running a boot-camp."
Katrina let out a shaky laugh. "His rites are... kinda like hot yoga with incense. Lots of deep stretches." Half-truth tasted safer than admitting she'd spent the evening split open by an old priest's cock and a ridged candle. Her thighs pressed together, milking one last sticky trickle down her calf.
The bathroom door clicked shut—finally, privacy. Katrina exhaled shakily, the tang of Papa Cain's cum still coating her tongue, thick and bitter in the back of her throat. Her jaw ached deliciously from how deep he'd used her mouth, and her bare chest still held faint, sticky traces where drops had landed—across her collarbone, her breasts, even a streak down between them. She hadn't worn panties, and now her bare pussy throbbed in the open air, lips swollen and aching to be filled again. She slid her fingers along the crusted spots on her skin, brought them to her lips, and sucked them clean with a moan. Her clit pulsed violently. Knees wobbling, she perched on the tub's edge, spread herself wide, and pushed two fingers into her soaked slit—hot, tender, hungry. Her back arched as her pussy clamped tight. There was no teasing. She needed this. She fucked herself fast, whispering his name under her breath like a dirty prayer.
Wet heat swallowed her knuckles—flesh still tender, greedier than shame. Fingers curled, hips snapped, and an orgasm detonated fast and sharp, toes clawing tile. Instead of relief, hunger swelled—not enough... never fucking enough.
She spiraled through the week like a girl possessed. Just days ago, the idea of touching herself had felt forbidden—something dirty, shameful, unthinkable. She used to flinch at her own reflection if her hand lingered too long near her thighs. But now? After Papa Cain had opened her, used her, freed her—she couldn't stop. It was like a dam broke inside her, and now the flood wouldn't stop. Every thought, every breath, every second alone twisted into need. Her fingers itched when she passed the candle on the dresser. Her body heated when she heard the word "service." She craved the feeling of slick, wet friction—craved the shame, the filth, the memory of being used. What once felt wrong now was a need. Touching herself wasn't impure anymore—it was obedience. A tribute. A hunger ritual. And every time
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This is part 2 of a total of 3 parts. | ||
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