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she came, she whispered his name, like she was offering up her orgasm to him.

Morning, when the house was quiet: door wedged shut, mattress creaking as she straddled her own clenched fists. She rocked until sticky slick soaked the sheets, coming with Papa Cain's smirk stamped in her head—Good little slut, swallow the candle.

Mid-afternoon, bathroom floor: skirt bunched at her waist, three fingers punishing her twitching cunt while she bit a rolled towel to muffle moans. Footsteps in the hall made her pussy gush harder, droplets spattering the tile.

Every single night: the mirror ritual. The lamp dimmed low, her body bathed in a soft golden haze as she knelt naked before her reflection. Her long blonde hair tumbled messily over her shoulders, framing flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. One hand pressed between her thighs, already slick and twitching; the other rested against the mirror like she needed to hold herself up. She stared into her own face—lips parted, tits rising and falling—whispering filth to herself. "You liked it," she murmured. "You loved swallowing him... you begged for it." Her fingers circled her swollen clit, faster now, while flashes of Papa Cain's cock filled her mind—stretching her asshole, her pussy, his voice calling her his "good little gate." Her cunt throbbed. Her legs shook. And when she came, gasping, it wasn't her own name she moaned—it was his. Again. Every orgasm left her emptier, needier. Her reflection stared back, ruined and glowing. But it wasn't shame she felt anymore. It was devotion. Normal chores turned pornographic. Washing dishes? She remembered tonguing Papa Cain's cock clean. Sweeping the floor? She flashed on stone scraping her knees while his sac slapped her clit. The filth rewired her: shame became fuel; every heartbeat drummed fuck me again.

Steam rose in soft spirals from the roast chicken, and Katrina barely heard a word of the dinner conversation—until her stepfather casually said, "Can't wait for service tomorrow." The word service hit her like a jolt between the legs. Her pussy clenched under the table, a slow gush dampening her shorts. She shifted in her seat, biting her tongue as her slick spread warmly beneath her. She couldn't even look up. All she could think about was Papa Cain. His cock. That thick, stretched memory of him inside her—filling her throat, making her gag, then bending her over and owning her completely. Her breathing quickened just remembering the way he whispered open wider.

She stared down at her plate, fork idle, pretending to be engaged, but her mind was racing. He'll be there tomorrow. He'll speak in riddles only I understand. He'll smile at my parents while my pussy leaks onto the bench. He'll use me again. Harder. Longer. Maybe this time in both holes at once... Her nipples stiffened under her shirt. Her thighs pressed together, trying to hide the throb building deep between them. It was unbearable—craving, pretending, hiding the filth growing louder in her thoughts.

"Katrina?" her mom said gently, noticing her dazed look. "You okay, baby?"

Snapping back into the room, Katrina quickly nodded, brushing her hair behind one ear. "Yeah, sorry. I was just... thinking about tomorrow's message. The way Papa Cain spoke last time really stayed with me. About surrendering fully, body and soul." She gave a soft, thoughtful smile.

Her dad chuckled. "That man sure knows how to stir hearts."

Katrina smiled politely—but inside, she was already throbbing, already imagining his cock stretching her open.

Chapter 2 - Sunday Service with Double Meaning Katrina had showered early that morning. The water washed the surface, but it couldn't rinse away what stirred inside her since Papa Cain claimed her. Her body still tingled in memory of his voice, his hands, his cock — her flower, as he called it, still wide open for him.

She stood before the mirror now, cheeks flushed, nipples pebbling under the soft fabric of her white chiffon blouse. No bra. No need. Her breasts were perky, proud. The eggshell skirt she chose today stopped at mid-thigh. When she walked, it flirted with her skin, brushing just enough to remind her she wasn't wearing anything underneath. She added a light cherry gloss to her lips — swollen, sensitive, still slightly sore from nights spent biting them in heat.

The car ride to church was its own torment. Her mother chirped away about how lovely the morning was, while her stepfather praised Papa Cain's "spiritual strength." Katrina pressed her thighs together, barely listening. Every bump in the road sent a dull throb through her bare slit, already warm and sticky.

"You've been so committed lately, sweetheart," her dad said over his shoulder. "Papa Cain's really helped you open up."

She gave a soft smile. You have no idea, she thought. He opened more than my heart.

The chapel smelled like smoke and spice. Candles flickered on stone walls, and a golden haze hung in the air. Katrina stepped inside slowly, letting her hips roll, the pleats of her skirt swaying gently. Her nipples pressed firmly through her blouse, catching in the candlelight. She saw the heads turn. She felt their stares. Some whispered words like angel and blessing. Her stepfather didn't notice. But Papa Cain did.

She slid into the pew, her skin meeting cool wood. The fabric of her skirt shifted, bunched slightly beneath her. She could already feel how damp it was getting.

Her breath caught the moment she saw him—Papa Cain, standing at the altar, robed in worn cloth, face unreadable, eyes locked straight on hers like he could see every dirty thought she'd had all week. He wasn't young. He wasn't handsome. His frame was thin, his face lined with age—but none of that mattered. Her pussy still throbbed for him. It wanted him—his big black cock, the one who had used her. She was the kind of girl men drooled over—tight little body, perfect tits, glossy blonde hair and legs that made heads turn—and yet, the only thing she craved now was that thick, heavy cock she'd sucked and service like it was a big precious gem. Her pussy clenched at the memory of being stretched by it, used by it. She had begged for it in her dreams, moaned his name into her pillow, and now here he was—flesh and blood. Her soaked little cunt pulsed under her skirt, whispering one need on repeat: Take me again.

Papa Cain took the pulpit. His robe swayed as he moved. His eyes never left her.

He spoke slowly, deliberately.

"Each of us carries gates within—portals that, when opened, bring us closer to true freedom."

"Some are simple, like the mouth, made to speak and receive."

"Others are more delicate... like a soft, waiting flower that only blooms under the right pressure."

"And then, there are the darker gates. Tighter. Resistant. But once entered—once pushed through—they reveal realms of release most never dare to reach."

"Freedom isn't found in restraint. It's found in surrender... when every gate welcomes what it was made to hold."

Katrina didn't breathe. Every word was meant for her. Her mouth—used, trained, stretched around the weight of him.

Her flower—her tight, aching pussy—still tender from being opened, twitching at the memory of his slow, deep push.

And the darkest gate—her tight, forbidden asshole—once clenched in fear... now pulsing with the need to be pressed open again.

She sat still, but inside she was shaking, her cunt dripping onto the pew, her ass clenching at the thought of being entered there again—harder.

Across the chapel, her parents bowed their heads and murmured: "Yes, Papa... Yes, Papa..."

But Katrina sat frozen, her eyes wide open. Her nipples strained beneath her blouse. A damp crescent darkened the pleats of her skirt, right between her thighs. She clenched, trying not to gasp. Every breath was a petition of want.

After the service, families gathered on the front porch of the chapel. Katrina stood beside her stepfather, tea in hand, barely tasting it. Papa Cain approached, all calm confidence, his gaze heavy with knowledge.

He reached out to shake her stepfather's hand.

"Your stepdaughter's obedience is extraordinary," he said warmly. "She responds to instruction almost... instinctively."

Her stepfather beamed. "She's always been a good listener."

Papa Cain turned to Katrina. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder — his thumb brushing the inside of her blouse, just below the collarbone, near the swell of her breast. Her spine straightened. Her breath caught.

"It's rare," he said, eyes locked on hers, "to see such... fruitful dedication. What do you say, Katrina—still ready to be... opened?"

Her thighs tensed. She wanted to drop the tea, drop everything, and sink to her knees for him right there. But she stayed still. Her expression was calm. Controlled. Trained. But inside, her body screamed.

She met his eyes, heart thudding, and let a slow smile curve her lips. "Always," she said softly, her voice like velvet. "Whatever you need... Papa."

Papa Cain's smirk deepened, eyes lingering just a moment longer than was proper.

From the corner of the porch, her mother and stepfather chatted cheerfully, completely blind to the storm swirling in the space between Katrina and the priest. To them, it was polite small talk. To Katrina, it was hidden. Filthy. Delicious.

Papa Cain took a slow sip from his cup, then set it down with care. "Don't forget, Katrina," he said, voice smooth, measured. "You're expected back here tomorrow morning. There's... another ritual waiting."

Her mother lit up. "Oh, how wonderful! She's really benefiting from all this."

Her stepfather nodded proudly. "Discipline and structure—it's exactly what she needed."

Katrina simply smiled, lips glossed and silent. But inside, her pussy clenched. She knew exactly what kind of ritual he meant. And her body was already begging for it.

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Papa Cain leaned in close — so close she could feel his breath against her ear.

"Tomorrow morning," he whispered, his voice like warm smoke curling into her ear. "Make sure all your gates are... ready." He lingered, then added with a sly smirk, "This time... you may need to open wider. some rituals require both gates at the same time."

A ripple tore through her. Her knees weakened. Her nipples stiffened. She nodded without speaking. She couldn't trust her voice.

As Katrina turned to leave, her steps were slow—measured—but every sway of her hips was deliberate. Papa Cain's gaze dropped, locked onto the firm curve of her ass beneath the clingy fabric of her skirt, now slightly damp from the rain. He watched her walk away like a man studying architecture—devout, hungry, claiming her with every stare. She felt it too... the weight of his eyes crawling up her thighs, spreading her cheeks in his mind, imagining how those gates would open again.

Then, his eyes slid briefly to her mother, still chatting innocently with her husband. Her figure—mature, but well-kept—moved with subtle grace. The same rounded ass, though softened with age, still held firmness in the right places. So that's where she got it, he thought, lips twitching. This one's already been used... but there's still something ripe left in her.

He returned his gaze to Katrina's swaying hips, already planning how far the next ritual would reach.

On the way home, Katrina stared out the window, lips parted, fingers lightly brushing the side of her thigh. He'll touch me again. He'll claim more. Deeper. Fuller.

But this time... both gates at once? Will there be someone else? Another cock waiting? Her thighs pressed together, breath catching.

"You're glowing, baby," her mom said, glancing back.

"I just feel... free," Katrina answered.

But in her chest, in her belly, in her soaked pussy, she burned.

Chapter 3 - Rain-Drenched Nerves The sky was still ink-black when Katrina slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. She peeled off her sleep tee, stepping out of her damp sheets and into the early chill. The mirror greeted her with the image of a girl who should've looked innocent—but her body betrayed her. Long blonde hair tangled in soft waves down her back, her firm tits sat high and proud, nipples already perking in the cold. Her waist curved down into smooth hips and that sinful, round ass that bounced with every step. Her thighs were soft and toned, her skin glowing, and her plump pussy lips peeked from between her legs, already glistening with heat from just thinking of him. Flushed cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes, and faint bite marks on her swollen lower lip completed the picture: she wasn't some shy girl anymore—she was his.

She turned on the shower and let the steam build. The water hit her skin in hot streams, tracing down the curves she now knew were his favorite playground. Her nipples beaded instantly under the spray, aching to be sucked again. She lathered slowly, letting her hands linger over her tits, cupping the soft weight, thumbs circling over stiff buds. Her mind flashed to his face, buried between her thighs. That tongue. That growl.

Reaching for the shaving cream, she squeezed a cool, foamy line across her pussy. With slow care she worked it over every swell and fold, then guided the razor in clean, deliberate strokes. Each glide bared another inch of silken skin, a gift she was wrapping just for him. She tipped one hip, opening herself to skim the razor along the delicate edge of her slit, then carefully traced around the tight ring of her backdoor. Every pass left her smoother, more exposed, and her pulse hammered at the thought of how easily he'd slide in now—how completely he could claim her. She rinsed the blade, breath shaky, nipples throbbing from the anticipation building between her legs.

She slid her fingers down, lathering her fresh-shaven mound, then between her legs where her pussy lips were already swollen and slick. She traced the spot where his cock had pressed in so deep she nearly blacked out from the stretch. Then lower, her soapy fingertips circling her backdoor—the place he'd claimed with slow, unrelenting thrusts.

A moan slipped out before she could stop it.

Will he use both holes at once? Will there be another cock this time? The thoughts made her knees wobble.

Then—knock knock.

"Katrina! Hurry up, you'll be late!" her mother's voice rang through the wood.

She jolted, almost dropping the razor. Her heart hammered. "Coming!" she called, voice breathy.

No time left.

She rinsed, toweled down fast, and slipped into the powder-blue sundress—bare skin still dewy from the shower. The fabric was thin, airy, almost indecent. No panties. No bra. Just her freshly shaved pussy lips brushing against the silky lining with every step, her nipples stiff and pushing against the soft cotton like little peaks begging to be seen. The hem barely kissed the tops of her thighs, swaying with each movement, threatening to flash that perfect ass if she so much as bent forward. The deep V back dipped all the way to her tailbone, exposing smooth spine and a teasing hint of curve. She looked like a wet dream on legs—innocent blue wrapped around a body made for impurity.

The rain had come down hard—thick, tropical sheets that blurred the world into silver. Katrina stood by the window, the hem of her sundress fluttering as thunder rolled in the distance. She had hoped to walk, to feel the wind kiss her thighs as she made her way to Papa Cain. Alone. Expectant. But now—

"I'll drop you off," her dad called from the hallway. "No use getting drenched."

Her stomach lurched. "W-What? No, you don't have to—" she blurted, trying to sound casual. Her mind raced for an excuse, any way to get out of it, to avoid this disaster. But her stepfather was already grabbing the car keys.

"Nonsense," he said cheerfully. "It's pouring out there. I'll take you. You'll catch a cold in that little dress."

She froze. Fuck. Her heart pounded in her throat. There was no way out. No lie quick enough, no plan clean enough.

"...Okay," she said finally, tight-lipped, barely hiding the panic crawling under her skin.

In the car, she pressed her knees together, heart thudding against her ribs. The wipers sliced across the windshield in rhythmic swipes—left, right, left. With each sweep, her mind betrayed her: thrust, pull, thrust. Her pulse synced to it. She swallowed hard.

"What the fuck happens now? My stepfather's with me... driving me straight to the filth I'm walking into," she thought to herself, pulse spiking.

She glanced sideways. Her stepfather hummed some tune behind the wheel, completely oblivious. Meanwhile, Katrina's chest felt tight, her breath shallow. The air in the car clung to her skin, thick with her own arousal. Every bump in the road made her thighs shift, spreading warmth beneath her. Her nipples strained against the soft fabric, and she prayed he wouldn't notice her clenched fists or the way her breath hitched every time she imagined what—or who—was waiting for her. She tried to stay composed, but her body pulsed with memory and need. No one could know.

Stop it, she told herself. You're losing it.

But the heat between her legs pulsed harder. Papa Cain's voice echoed in her mind: Both gates... eager.

She shifted in her seat, biting the inside of her cheek. He won't know. He can't know. But she was soaked in more than rain—and it wasn't just the storm outside she feared.

Chapter 4 - The Porch Tea Ceremony The downpour hadn't eased. Katrina barely had time to shut the car door before the rain swallowed her. Her sundress clung immediately — transparent, molded to her stomach and breasts like a second skin. She ran up the chapel steps, sandals slapping the stone, her soaked fabric riding high with each stride. By the time she reached the covered porch, water beaded over her nipples and her thighs shimmered slick with rain and heat.

Papa Cain stood waiting, dry as ever, a steaming mug in his hand and an unreadable smile on his lips.

"You're glowing," he said, voice smooth. "Storms do that to you?"

Then his eyes narrowed, tone dipping lower. "I thought you wouldn't come."

Katrina looked up at him through wet lashes, cheeks flushed, her lips curving into a slow smile. She didn't need to answer. The way she stood there—dress clinging to every curve, nipples tight beneath the soaked fabric, hair plastered to her temples—was the answer.

Papa Cain's gaze swept over her body like a hand, lingering on the faint outline between her thighs where the fabric had become almost translucent. He smiled too, but his was hungrier. Knowing.

"Good," he murmured, voice like a promise. "You're right on time."

Behind her, the car door slammed again. Her stepfather's voice broke the moment.

"Woo! That came down fast!" he said, jogging up, jacket over his head. "You two alright?"

Katrina barely turned. She was still catching her breath, still adjusting to the way Papa Cain's eyes devoured her without moving. The front of her dress clung so tightly now, the faint shape of her freshly shaved mound was visible through the sheer wet fabric.

Papa Cain greeted her stepfather politely. "You're just in time for something warm. Come, have a seat."

Katrina blinked. What? She hadn't expected her stepfather to stay. Why was he being invited?

They settled into wooden chairs under the porch awning. Steam curled from their coffee mugs. Her stepfather launched into easy conversation—crops, roads, a cousin's wedding—oblivious to the storm churning just inches away. Katrina sat stiffly, legs crossed tightly, spine rigid. She tugged her damp hair forward over her chest, trying to mask the stiff peaks of her nipples beneath the soaked fabric. Her sundress clung like a second skin, and she could feel the outline of her mound pressing against the seat. She hadn't dressed for small talk—she'd dressed for fucking. And now, with her stepfather sipping tea beside her, every inch of her body screamed to be hidden.

Papa Cain sipped slowly. "Your stepdaughter," he said, eyes never leaving hers, "has a rare spirit. Eager. Teachable. She listens... with her... whole body."

Her stepfather laughed, flattered. "Oh, she's always been a fast learner. Quiet, but serious."

Katrina's cheeks flamed. Beneath the table, she shifted her hips just slightly, the wet fabric dragging across her sensitive skin. Papa Cain's words were code. Every one of them.

And then she felt it.

A new presence.

The heavy thud of sandals on stone.

The door creaked behind them, and another figure emerged—taller than Papa Cain, lean to the point of skeletal, with a presence that made the air tighten around them. He was older—far older than Papa Cain—and somehow even more unsettling. Skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, eyes sunken and black as tar. A fringe of graying hair clung to his scalp, and his black ceremonial robe draped loosely from his narrow frame. But what made Katrina's breath catch was the bold, unmistakable outline straining at the fabric between his legs—impossibly thick, impossible to ignore. Her eyes flicked there before she could stop herself, and heat surged to her cheeks. How could something that disturbing... stir something so deep inside me? The thought embarrassed her—and thrilled her.

A flush crawled up Katrina's neck as the truth clicked into place: Papa Cain hadn't been speaking in riddles. There really would be another—another pair of hands, another cock, another set of eyes watching her gates open. The idea hit like a jolt from throat to cunt. All week she'd teetered between fear and craving.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She felt her pussy clench around nothing, slick already gathering again despite the rain-chill air. Two of them. Two men older than her stepfather, uglier, hungrier—one she'd tasted, one whose size alone dared her to imagine the stretch. The thought should have sent her running. Instead it sparked a dizzy thrill that buzzed beneath her skin.

She drew a shaky breath, nipples throbbing against the soaked dress. Doubt evaporated, replaced by a raw certainty: whatever lay past that door, she would open for it.

Papa Cain stood.

"Master Herod," he said, tone reverent.

Master Herod's gaze swept past the stepfather with barely a nod and settled on Katrina. His lips didn't move, but something in his expression said everything.

He knew her.

Without permission, without shame, his eyes dragged over her wet form — breasts outlined, thighs parted, fabric revealing the softness between. She felt seen. Exposed. Owned.

Her stepfather turned with a smile. "Good morning."

Master Herod barely acknowledged him. Instead, he stepped closer to Katrina and let his long fingers rest on her hip. Not inappropriate — not overt. But intimate. Dominant.

"She's... prepared," he murmured.

Papa Cain nodded. "Nearly complete."

Master Herod's voice was dry. "You've done well."

Katrina swallowed. Her heart pounded. Her skin buzzed under Master Herod's fingertips—still touching her, just enough to claim. She kept her eyes forward, body still, even as his hand lingered near the small of her back. Her stepfather beamed beside them, completely oblivious.

"Oh, she's been preparing all week for this ritual," he said with a proud chuckle. "We're so proud of her dedication."

Master Herod's lips twitched into something between a smirk and a leer. "That's good," he murmured, eyes never leaving Katrina. "Very good."

Then Papa Cain turned. "Sir, if you don't mind... this next part of her journey requires privacy. It's... deeply personal."

"Oh of course, of course," her stepfather said, standing. "I'll wait by the gate. Rain's easing up anyhow."

Papa Cain moved like a conductor, steering the moment. He pivoted toward her stepfather, blocking his line of sight with a genial grin. "Sir, tell me—how are the roads holding up after last week's storm? I've heard the eastern bridge may wash out." He gestured insistently to the porch chair. Her stepfather, eager to chat, dropped into it and launched straight into weather reports and neighborhood detours, his gaze fixed on Papa Cain's attentive nods.

Behind that shield of small talk, Master Herod stepped in close. The rain hissed off the eaves; every heartbeat echoed in Katrina's ears. "Stand," he murmured, voice rough as gravel. She rose on shaking legs.

Master Herod's hand cupped her soaked skirt, sliding beneath until his palm found bare flesh. A slow, possessive squeeze claimed the swell of her ass. Heat shot up her spine.

"No panties," he breathed against her ear. "Smart slut."

A full-body shiver rolled through her. The chapel door waited, heavy and dark. Papa Cain's pleasant chatter kept her stepfather turned away—blissfully distracted—while Master Herod guided her forward, fingers still pressing into naked skin. In the drum of the rain, the soft click of the latch sounded like the start of something irreversible.

Papa Cain stepped aside and opened the door.

"Shall we begin?"

Katrina crossed the threshold without a word, two sets of eyes fixed on the sway of her hips as she entered.

Behind her, the door shut with a deep, final sound.

Chapter 5 - Three-Chair Inquisition Three chairs waited in the chapel's inner chamber: one plain, set a few paces from the wall—Katrina's; two darker, heavier seats facing her—Papa Cain's and Master Herod's. Candle stubs hissed on a low table beside the men, weaving smoke into pale ropes that curled around the trio like invisible restraints.

"Come now," Papa Cain murmured, gesturing to the lone chair between them. "Take a seat, Katrina... we've been waiting to hear everything."

Katrina obeyed, damp skirt clinging as she eased down onto the unforgiving wood. The chair's chill seeped straight through, igniting a spark where her thighs met. Master Herod and Papa Cain pulled their own seats closer—so close the space between their knees and hers barely spanned a hand's width. Their dark robes parted enough to show unmistakable shapes beneath the folds: hard outlines, waiting.

Master Herod's black-tar gaze swept over her rain-slick dress and lingered at her chest. "Flawless," he told Papa Cain, voice soft and sharp at once. "A perfect little slut—tight waist, hungry tits, an ass built for fucking."

A sting of shame flushed her face; the shame melted immediately into heat. She locked her fingers hard around a handful of skirt to keep from squirming.

Papa Cain leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Tell Master Herod how it felt last time," he said, voice low and deliberate. "When I stretched you... every detail."

Katrina's cheeks flushed deep pink. Her eyes dropped to her lap, where her fingers twisted in the hem of her dress. She swallowed hard, then parted her lips.

"He—Papa Cain—he showed me how to touch myself," she admitted, biting her lip. "I always thought it was dirty... impure. But he made it feel like... like I was finally allowed to..."

She inhaled shakily, her thighs inching together.

"He the started slow, with the... the tighter gate," she said, glancing away.

"It was... intense," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "At first, I thought I couldn't take it. He was so... big. I felt like I was being torn open."

She hesitated, breath catching as the memory swept over her— Master Herod's bony fingers digging into her hips, Papa Cain's voice in her ear.

"But then... Papa Cain held me. He told me to breathe. To open. And when I did..." She looked up now, eyes glassy with heat. "It started to feel good. So good. I didn't want it to stop."

Her voice grew softer, needier. "Then Papa Cain took the other... My untouched flower. I'd saved it, always thought I would... but when he stretched me open, I didn't feel guilt. I felt right. Like I was made for this."

A shaky breath escaped her lips. "I've never... been stretched like that before. I still feel it sometimes. When I walk. When I sit."

She bit her lip. "I think about it. A lot."

Master Herod let out a low sound, eyes gleaming. "Well done, Cain," he murmured. "You broke her in perfectly."

Katrina shivered.

Master Herod's eyes stayed locked on Katrina. "You touched yourself, didn't you?" he asked, voice low and deliberate. "After last time. After you were opened."

Katrina's lips parted. Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away. "Yes," she whispered. "I... I didn't think it was right before. I always thought touching myself was something shameful. But after he... showed me how—" her voice quivered, eyes flicking briefly to Papa Cain—"it felt like something was finally unlocked."

Master Herod leaned forward, the shadows catching the hunger in his eyes. "Good," he said. "That's where freedom begins, girl. When you stop asking permission to feel what's already burning inside you."

He let the silence hang a moment before asking: "Tell me. How many times since?"

Katrina hesitated, fingers tightening in her lap. "I don't know... maybe six? Seven?" Her thighs pressed together as the memories flooded back—candlelight, mirror reflections, slick fingers, whispered names.

Master Herod smirked. "You do know."

She nodded slowly. "Ten," she said finally. "Maybe more. I lost count."

Papa Cain smiled, proud. Master Herod tilted his head. "And when you did... where did your mind go? What did you see? Be honest, slut. Did you imagine your little pussy getting filled again? Or... something filthier?"

Katrina shuddered, hips shifting almost involuntarily on the chair. Her voice was barely audible. "I imagined my gates... being stretched"

Master Herod's voice turned rougher. "And did you imagine your tight asshole opening again too?"

She nodded slowly, breath catching.

Master Herod leaned back, eyes fixed on her like a predator playing with its prey. "So, Katrina..." His voice was deep, smooth, mocking. "How many times did you climax while touching that sweet little pussy this week thinking about what we did?"

Katrina's breath caught. Her thighs pressed tighter together, as if that could stop the throbbing. "I... I don't know," she said softly. "Maybe seven. Maybe more."

Papa Cain smirked. "She couldn't stop, could she? Filthy little thing."

Master Herod tilted his head. "And just your fingers?"

She nodded, eyes flicking downward. "Yes. Just my fingers."

"And where did you do it?" he asked, tone almost amused. "In bed, on the floor, on your knees?"

Katrina swallowed hard. "In bed. Lights off. On the bathroom floor... and in the shower... Quiet... so no one would hear."

Papa Cain chuckled low, shifting forward, bulge pressing at the fabric of his robe. "Bet you still moaned. Couldn't help yourself."

Master Herod's lip twitched in satisfaction. "Describe the best one."

She couldn't answer. Her cheeks burned, but words poured: the mirror, the flickering lamp, her own reflection begging for more. As she spoke, she felt heat pool between her legs. Her hips gave a tiny, unconscious rock. The motion dragged wet fabric across swollen skin, and a dark spot began to bloom on her dress where it met the wooden seat.

Master Herod's gaze didn't waver. "That's good, Katrina. That's the beginning of real freedom—when you stop fighting what you really want. When you stop pretending you're not just a little slut aching to be filled again."

Her breath hitched. Her hips had started to roll slowly, unconsciously. Her fists twisted into the hem of her dress, pulling it taut between her thighs. Her clit throbbed. Her whole body buzzed.

Papa Cain watched the wet patch spread, eyes half-lidded. He shifted, letting the edge of the table brush the thick swell under his robe. A silent promise. He leaned in, eyes hooded. "You're dripping." Master Herod's voice was a growl now. "She's ready. But we're not done. Not until she tells us everything."

Master Herod's tone turned almost comforting—twisted comfort. "Every pulse you gave yourself was a freeing experience. Guilt is just rust on your gate. We scrape rust away with pleasure."

The words landed deeper than fingers. Katrina shivered. Her knuckles whitened around the bunched hem, but her hips kept a subtle rhythm she could no longer stop—press, release, press. A faint, wet sound escaped and Master Herod's nostrils flared.

"Did you picture Papa Cain filling your mouth when you came?" Master Herod asked, voice dropping.

"Yes," she breathed.

"Did you imagine his cock stretching you wide?"

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. "Yes."

Master Herod rose, circling behind her. One long hand cupped the back of her neck—not cruel, but firm enough to remind her who owned the moment. "Show us," he whispered at her ear, warm breath sliding down her spine. "Show us your tight little pussy."

Katrina's thighs fell open before she even realized. Fabric tugged, exposing her trembling little pussy glistening with her own juice. Her hips rolled once on the wet spot on the wooden chair—twice. The wet sound of her slit was louder now. She caught Papa Cain's stare—an inferno of approval—and let her head tip back on a silent moan.

Papa Cain's voice came low, honeyed and fierce: "That's it, slut. Let him see how the thought of my big cock makes you wet."

Master Herod's hand tilted her chin. "Yes, slut... Open wider."

Chapter 6 - Candle, Tongue & Cock Katrina's thighs trembled as Master Herod's bony fingers tilted her chin. The light from the flickering candles danced across her glistening folds, fully exposed, her legs spread wide on the chair, the soaked hem of her dress bunched at her waist. Her pussy was pink, raw, and dripping—lips parted, clit swollen and twitching with every breath.

"Open wider," Master Herod growled. His voice wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It was command wrapped in quiet hunger.

She obeyed.

The chair creaked beneath her as she shifted, ankles planted wider, hips rolling forward so her cunt was tilted directly toward them. A string of slick clung from her twitching slit to the wood below. Her body was glowing—slick with arousal, flushed with need. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her lips parted as if permanently stuck in mid-moan.

Papa Cain's voice rumbled low, warm and approving. "You see what a week of preparation does to a willing gate. Soaked. Desperate. Her little pussy's begging to be filled."

Katrina whimpered. "Hmmm..."

Master Herod stepped forward, hands steady, eyes locked on her heat. "You want to show us how grateful you are, little slut?"

She nodded, frantic, breath stuttering. "Yes, Master Herod... yes, Papa Cain."

"Then stand," Master Herod ordered.

She rose on shaking legs, dress sliding down briefly before Papa Cain caught it and pulled it back up around her waist, exposing her from the hips down. Her nipples pressed tight against the damp fabric clinging to her chest.

Master Herod turned the chair around.

"Straddle it," Papa Cain said smoothly, stepping closer. "Face us. Show us how a grateful slut rides her shame."

Katrina climbed onto the chair, thighs trembling as she swung one leg over and sank down—pussy pressing to the slick spot she'd soaked earlier. Her breath caught in her throat.

Master Herod's gaze roamed over her flushed face, the pink tips of her nipples poking through the damp fabric. He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval and eased forward until his knees brushed the inside of her thighs. "Show Papa how eager you really are," he murmured, voice low and gravelly. One hand cupped a breast through the soaked dress, squeezing until her nipple pebble-hard under his palm; the other traced down the curve of her belly, dragging the hem higher.

"Touch yourself, slut—nice and slow," he breathed against her ear. "Think about thick cocks splitting your sweet little gates wide."

Katrina's head lolled back, a soft moan slipping free. She slid her own trembling fingers down, past the slick heat of her pussy, letting one fingertip part her swollen lips. Wetness coated her at once. She rubbed lazy circles around her clit, shuddering as sensation rippled outward. Master Herod's hand pinched her nipple harder, rolling it between thumb and finger.

"Picture it," he coaxed, tongue flicking her earlobe. "Two big cocks—one stretching this greedy pussy, the other spearing that tight asshole you love so much. Feel how they'd fill you."

A whimper broke from her throat as she pressed a single finger into her cunt—tight, slick, desperate. Her walls clamped greedily, drawing the digit in to the last knuckle. She pumped once, twice, then added a second finger, the stretch sparking a gasp. Her hips began a slow grind against her own hand, juices gathering and dripping down to her thighs.

"Good girl," Master Herod crooned, nibbling along her neck. "Work those fingers—open yourself up for us. Get that pussy sloppy for our cocks."

Katrina's eyes fluttered shut, breath hitching with each thrust of her fingers. The squelch of wet heat filled the dim chapel as she fucked herself harder, thumb rolling her clit. Every filthy praise Master Herod whispered—huge cock, deep stretch, double-stuffed—pulsed straight to where her fingers plunged.

Her climax hovered at the edges when a shadow loomed over her. She opened heavy-lidded eyes to see Papa Cain standing before her, a ridged ivory candle dripping faint wisps of smoke from its newly snuffed wick.

"Enough fingers," Papa Cain said, offering the candle like a precious gem. "Let's give that hungry cunt something worth taking." His eyes fixed on Katrina's trembling form. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, one hand still buried between her thighs, fingers slick and glistening with her own dripping need. He watched the way her body shivered, hips grinding subtly against her own touch—so eager, so filthy.

He held out the thick, ridged candle—still warm from the flame, fat and unforgiving.

His voice was deep, smooth, commanding. "You've only used your fingers so far, little slut... Now it's time you learn to take something else. Something thicker. Something real. Let this teach your pussy how to serve properly."

Katrina's breath caught in her throat. Her fingers froze between her legs, slick and glistening, before slipping out with a soft, wet sound. She stared at the thick candle in Papa Cain's hand—so much bigger than her fingers, ridged and intimidating. Her lips parted in hesitation.

But slowly, nervously, her trembling hands reached out. She took it with a gasp, heart pounding. This was new. Scary. But the heat between her legs overruled the fear. She didn't know if she could take it...

Master Herod leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "Don't just hold it like a virgin, slut," he murmured. "Open that pretty mouth and take it. Lick it, suck it, get it nice and sloppy—like it's the cock your cunt's been begging for." His hand moved to her chin, tilting it up so she couldn't look away. "Show us you're ready to be filled with more than fingers."

Katrina hesitated, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. She glanced at the candle, then at Master Herod, then at Papa Cain—who was now seated before her, legs spread, one hand slowly stroking the thick bulge beneath his robe. His eyes burned into her, dark and heavy with promise. The outline of his cock pressed bold and enormous against the fabric, throbbing with every twitch of her hesitation. The air in the chamber thickened, the heat rising like incense. She swallowed hard, thighs clenching.

Then, licking her lips, Katrina lowered her head and opened her mouth wide. She moaned as she wrapped her lips around the waxy head, tongue swirling, wetting it with spit. She worked it slowly, just like Master Herod told her—up and down, dragging her tongue along the ridges, coating every inch with drool. Spit dripped from the corners of her mouth as she gagged herself just slightly on the candle, moaning through it like a girl in heat.

Master Herod's voice rumbled above her, low and commanding. "Good—now bring that sloppy candle down where it belongs," he ordered. "Spread those pretty lips with one hand, slut, and push the fat tip inside that needy pussy. Feel every ridge stretch you open. Nice and slow, all the way to the base—let us hear how wet you are while it fills you."

Then, with trembling fingers, she reached beneath herself.

The candle's spit-slick tip met her entrance. She gasped.

Her cunt swallowed the ridged shaft inch by inch, her pussy stretching wide, hugging the shape as she sank down slowly. The wax dragged against her walls—raw and textured. When the thick base finally pressed against her soaked lips, her head rolled back, a broken sound leaving her throat.

"Oh f—fuck..."

Papa Cain's voice sharpened. "Eyes open, Katrina. You're being watched."

She forced her head up.

Both men sat back in their chairs, legs spread, hands slowly stroking the thick bulges straining beneath their robes. The air around them pulsed with heat. Katrina's gaze flicked to Master Herod's lap, and her breath caught—his size pressed boldly against the fabric, thick and long, the shape so monstrous it looked almost unreal. Her lips parted in awe, fear and arousal twisting together.

Master Herod noticed.

His mouth curled into a dark smile. "Stare all you want, little slut," he murmured. "You'll feel it soon enough."

"Move," Papa Cain commanded.

Katrina began to grind—slow, hungry circles that made the candle's ridges rake every tender spot inside her quivering cunt. One trembling hand kept a firm hold on the thick wax, guiding each thrust; the other clutched the chair-back for balance as her hips worked in desperate rhythm, chest heaving, thighs shaking with molten effort.

Then Master Herod stood.

"Up," he said sharply, and she obeyed instantly, lifting herself off the candle with a wet pop.

He took her by the waist, spun her around, and pushed her forward so her chest pressed to the chair back, her ass high and spread for them. Her cunt, puffy and dripping, twitched in the open. The ridged candle still glistened in her slick hand.

"Keep it in," Papa Cain ordered.

She gasped as she pushed it back into herself.

Then Master Herod's hands hooked her ankles over the wide wooden arms of the chair, pulling her legs open and up until she was completely exposed, back arched, holes twitching.

Without warning, Master Herod's tongue pressed straight to her asshole.

"Ah—fuck!" she cried, jerking forward as the wet heat of his tongue lapped at her tight ring. She could feel it swirl, press, spear. Her asshole fluttered, spasmed under the attention. And all the while, the candle inside her cunt was being pumped by Master Herod's other hand—harder, faster.

"Her back gate's pulsing," Master Herod muttered darkly. "She's begging to be taken there again."

Papa Cain's restraint finally snapped. With a deep growl he shoved his chair back, yanked the robe up to his waist, and freed the thick monster he'd been palming—dark, veiny, slick at the swollen head. It loomed in front of Katrina's face, so huge it seemed to throb with its own heartbeat. Her eyes went wide, a reverent whimper spilling from her lips; instinct took over. She leaned forward, mouth falling open, tongue already reaching as if summoned.

Papa Cain stepped closer, pressing the blunt, gleaming tip to her waiting lips.

She opened instantly.

Thick, black, veined, leaking. His cock filled her mouth like a gift from the gods. She moaned around him, throat clenching as he sank deeper. Spit spilled from her lips, coating his shaft, dripping down her chin.

He didn't ease in—he claimed her throat, hand fisted in her hair, guiding the tempo.

And with every thrust, she pushed the candle deeper.

The rhythm built. Candle in her pussy. Tongue in her ass. Cock in her throat.

The room blurred. Katrina was nothing but a trembling whore. Pleasure, pressure, filth.

Her cunt clenched tighter—harder.

The orgasm hit like a seizure.

She screamed around Papa Cain's cock, throat fluttering, eyes rolling back as her entire body snapped tight. Her climax hit like lightning—squirt gushed around the candle, spraying Master Master Herod's wrist, soaking the chair beneath her. She trembled violently, every muscle locked, her pussy clenching down hard on the thick ridges inside her.

Papa Cain held her steady, buried deep in her mouth, and she moaned—long, desperate sounds vibrating around his cock. Mmmfff... aaahhh... nghhh...—each muffled cry a pulse of pleasure shaking through her. Her throat flexed with every twitch of her orgasm, her breath catching in frantic little gasps as she tried to ride it out, body convulsing under the dual invasion.

Her hips jerked. Her hands trembled. And still, she suckled him—like she never wanted to let go.

Papa Cain moaned as her throat vibrated around him. Master Herod groaned as her asshole puckered under his tongue.

She was their offering now. Soaked. Open.

As the orgasm ebbed, Katrina gasped for air, drool hanging in silver strings from her chin.

Papa Cain stroked her cheek, voice thick with pride. "That's one gate released."

Master Herod stood, wiping his mouth. "She's not done."

Papa Cain smirked. "Oh no... That was just the warm-up."

Chapter 7 - Gag Reflex Training Katrina was still panting, cunt twitching around the candle stuffed deep inside her pussy, juices slowly running down her thighs. Her breasts heaved, her cheeks streaked with drool and flushed with the lingering high of her squirt. She barely had time to catch her breath before Papa Cain leaned in, thumb grazing a wet line across her jaw.

"You've learned how to take the candle, little slut," he said with a low smirk, eyes flicking to the sticky trail still glistening down her thighs. "No more fingers like a shy little virgin. Now you know how to fill yourself properly. When you're home... you'll remember what your gates crave. You'll practice. Stretch. Serve."

Master Herod stood slowly, silent and deliberate. He brought his hands to the front of his robe and tugged.

The black fabric dropped.

And Katrina's world stopped.

His cock swung free—huge, dark, veined like a brutal roadmap of power. It was thicker than the candle still inside her pussy, and even more daunting than Papa Cain's, whose cock had already stretched her to her limits. But this... this was enormous. Longer, heavier, meaner. The head bobbed under its own weight, already gleaming with a bead of precum. The shaft was impossibly thick, almost unnatural, the veins raised and pulsing like cords beneath stretched, hot flesh. The base was framed with coarse black hair, and the scent hit the air around her immediately—musky, raw, almost bitter. It wasn't clean. It wasn't sweet. It was male. Dominant. Unwashed.

The smell hit Katrina like a drug. Her eyes went wide, lips parting as if magnetized to it. Her body jolted with a sudden clench around the candle, another droplet sliding down her thigh.

Master Herod caught the look in her eyes and smirked.

"You stared earlier," he murmured. "Measure it now with your throat."

Papa Cain chuckled beside her. "Think you're ready for that, little slut?"

Katrina swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the monstrous cock in front of her. Her voice came out small, breathless, trembling with both awe and fear.

"I... I don't think it'll fit..." Katrina whispered, eyes wide, voice trembling. "It's... it's too big. Bigger than anything. I don't know if I can..."

Master Herod smirked, stepping closer, the heavy shaft now just inches from her lips.

"It will," he said darkly. "You'll learn. Open that pretty mouth and let it stretch." Master Herod said, stepping forward, his cock now looming just inches from her mouth.

She gazed at it, awestruck. No dream, no cock, no filthy candle had ever come close to that size. Her pussy clenched again, as if jealous of what her throat was about to feel.

"Open that mouth, slut," Master Herod growled, his cock hovering inches from her lips. "Let's see if that pretty throat is as obedient as your filthy little cunt."

Katrina obeyed.

Her lips parted slowly, tongue stretching out. The smell of his cock filled her lungs—ripe and overwhelming, soaked in dominance. Her tongue touched the underside, and her moan vibrated in the back of her throat.

She wrapped her lips around the thick head, the taste of him earthy, musky, and bitter. He was too big to take in one motion, so she worked her mouth around the tip, tongue swirling, spit already pooling.

Master Herod's hand guided the base of his shaft. "Flatten that tongue, slut. Let me glide."

Katrina pressed her tongue flat and pushed deeper. The width forced her jaw wide, her lips stretching painfully. She made it halfway before the first gag hit. Gkkk—

Her eyes watered instantly. She pulled back, coughing, drool spilling from her lips.

Papa Cain let out a low laugh, his eyes locked on Katrina's watering face as she gagged around Master Herod's cock. One hand slid beneath his robe, fisting his thick shaft in slow, deliberate strokes. "That's it, slut. Gag on it. Feel the stretch. Make that throat remember who you serve."

Master Herod didn't stop. "Again, whore. Wrap that fist around the base and twist like you're milking a cock built to ruin you. Show us you're more than a teary little mouth."

Katrina nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. She wrapped one trembling hand around the shaft and began stroking in twisting motions while she leaned forward again. Her lips sucked loudly, spit pouring from the corners as she worked the tip back into her throat.

"Suck louder," Papa Cain growled. "Make us hear how badly you want to be throat-fucked."

She obeyed.

The wet, obscene sounds of her slurping filled the room—glk glk glk, each motion deeper, wetter. Master Herod's cock disappeared further with each attempt. She gagged less. Her jaw ached. Mascara ran down her face in thick black streaks.

Master Herod's hand cupped the back of her head. "Push, slut. Earn this cock."

Katrina gasped around the girth, took another inch, and felt her nose touch the dark curl of hair at the base.

Her throat fluttered. She was doing it.

Her eyes were soaked with tears. Her face was a mess. Her candle-stuffed pussy clenched hard.

Papa Cain leaned forward, voice like a growl. "Look at that... nose buried, throat full, drool down to her tits. You're becoming a proper little whore."

Katrina moaned around the shaft.

Master Herod held her there for a moment—throat stretched, air shallow, cock deep—and then slowly pulled back. Her lips clung to the shaft with a loud, wet pop. A thick strand of spit bridged her mouth to his cockhead, stretching until it snapped across her chin.

Papa Cain stroked her hair, gentle but firm. "You did well. But next time, we'll see how long that throat can hold it without air."

Master Herod smirked, his cock still twitching, glistening with her spit.

Papa Cain rose from his chair at last, the hunger in his eyes turning feral. He kicked the robe aside and let his own massive cock spring free—thick, dark, still glistening from the slow strokes he'd kept hidden beneath the fabric. The sight made Katrina's pulse spike: Papa Cain's shaft was monstrous on its own, but now—next to Master Herod's even larger beast—it looked like a pair of brutal pillars ready to claim her.

On a nearby table sat a small brass vial of oil. Papa Cain plucked it up, uncorked it with his teeth, and tipped a slow stream of amber slick across Katrina's trembling palms. The oil was warm, fragrant with spice, dripping through her fingers in glossy ropes.

"Coat us, little whore," he murmured. "Both of us—no cock left dry."

She obeyed instantly, sliding her oil-slick hands first around Papa Cain's shaft. Her fingers could barely meet around the girth; she pumped from base to crown, oil mixing with the pre-cum already weeping from his slit. Then she reached for Master Herod, shivering when her oiled fist wrapped that impossible thickness. The two cocks throbbed side by side—one huge, one colossal—veins pulsing beneath the shine of her slick strokes.

"Use your mouth too," Master Herod growled. "Swap back and forth. Keep us wet, keep those fists twisting."

Katrina leaned in, lips parting around Papa Cain's swollen head first. She suckled greedily, tongue lashing, cheeks hollowing as she bobbed once, twice—then pulled off with a wet pop and turned to Master Herod. Her jaw stretched painfully wide to take the darker crown between her lips; spit and oil smeared across her chin as she struggled for depth, her hands still milking both shafts in a slippery, rhythmic dance.

"Good little slut," Papa Cain rasped, hips rolling into her fist. "Jerk us like we own your hands."

"Harder," Master Herod hissed. "Twist that wrist—yes, feel the veins bulge. Look how filthy you are, swapping drool between two cocks."

Katrina moaned around him, eyes streaming mascara-streaked tears of effort and devotion. Oil and spit dripped to her bare breasts, nipples peaked and shiny. She pumped faster, mouth sliding from one cock to the other in greedy, sloppy intervals—suck, stroke, swap, repeat—until both shafts gleamed like obsidian bathed in honey.

Only when her arms trembled and her throat burned did Master Herod curl two fingers under her chin, tilting her gaze up.

"We're not done with this training, girl," he said, sliding those same fingers down to her inner thigh and tapping the candle still buried in her twitching cunt. "But you've earned the next lesson."

Katrina looked up at them, dazed, ruined, and glowing.

Chapter 8 - Door-Edge Penetrations The stone floor was cold beneath Katrina's knees, rough against the soft skin of her thighs as she dropped down on command. Her palms braced flat in front of her, shoulders sinking low while her hips stayed high, exposing everything. The candle had been pulled from her pussy minutes ago—her walls still twitched from the stretch, her thighs sticky with her own mess. But now she was open, leaking, dripping... waiting.

The sound of rainfall echoed faintly in the background, rhythmic drips tapping stone. The quiet outside only made the lewd heat inside more unbearable. Every sound—every moan, slap, squelch—might travel.

Papa Cain circled her slowly, the floor creaking under his steps. "Look at her posture, Master Herod. Back arched, slutty firm little ass pointed to us like an offering. This whore's body is no loner shy—it begs to be used."

Master Herod knelt behind her, spreading her ass cheeks with both hands. "Her pussy's still weeping," he said with a grunt. "But it's this filthy little gate that's calling me now."

Katrina whimpered. She didn't have to look to know what was coming.

She felt it—the shift in air, the heat of his body, the weight of his cock behind her.

Katrina turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of the sheer size of him, and her eyes widened in panic.

"Master Herod... my pussy won't be able to take that," she breathed, voice shaking.

He let out a low, mocking laugh. "Who said anything about your pussy?" He stepped closer, pressing the thick, oiled head right between her cheeks. "It's your tight little asshole I'm going to stretch."

Katrina jolted, body tensing instantly. "But- but, it'll never fit," she gasped. "That's too big—my asshole's too tight!"

Master Herod's grip tightened on her hips as he leaned in, his voice like gravel and fire. "That twitching little hole is begging to be stretched. You think I can't see it clenching like it's desperate to be split wide open? You were made for this, slut."

She gasped as warm oil trickled between her cheeks, Master Herod's hand stroking his massive cock, coating it slow and thick. She didn't dare look back. Her knees pressed wider apart. Her breathing quickened.

"Push that filthy little ass back, slut," he growled. "Make it easy for me to ruin your hole."

Katrina whimpered, but her body obeyed—though it shook. A nervous shiver rippled down her spine as she arched deeper, hips tilting higher. Her knees inched wider apart despite the tremble in her thighs, presenting her trembling asshole like a reluctant offering. She bit her lower lip hard, breaths coming in quick, shallow pulls while her cheeks parted, slick and shining with oil. Her tight little hole twitched in anxious spasms, fluttering around nothing—an involuntary invitation she was terrified to fulfill.

Then came the pressure—hot, slick, massive—as the fat, oil-slicked head of his cock pressed hard against her tightest gate. The swollen crown flattened slightly against her puckered hole, too thick to slip in easily, forcing the muscle to yield. Her asshole twitched, clenched, resisted—then began to give, inch by agonizing inch. The stretch burned and throbbed, her ring spreading wider than it ever had, wrapped tight around the head as it slowly popped inside, claiming her inch by thick, veined inch. Her breath caught, a strangled sound in her throat—equal parts pain, shock, and unbearable pleasure—as her body surrendered to the brutal intrusion.

Her mouth flew open just as the fat head finally popped past her tight ring and slid inside, forcing her open with a sudden, brutal stretch. "Oh f- fuck!" she screamed, the word ripping from her throat—loud, unrestrained, echoing off the stone as her asshole clamped tight around the thick intruder.

Outside, the floorboards creaked. A knock.

Katrina froze.

"Everything alright in there, sweetheart?" came her stepfather's voice—smooth, deep, kind.

Her eyes went wide. Master Herod's cockhead was into her ass.

He's right there.

She had completely forgotten—He was still waiting outside at the gate, just beyond the chapel door. The reminder hit her like lightning, and her whole body burned—panic in her veins as she knelt there, holes exposed, being filled while he stood unknowingly just feet away.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to sob. Papa Cain stepped forward, cupping her chin.

"Well?" he murmured, cock now inches from her lips. "He's waiting for you, girl."

Katrina swallowed her moan and gasped breathily, "Just... praying, stepdad."

Outside, the porch creaked again. A beat of silence... then his voice, warm and gentle through the door: "That's good, sweetheart. Take your time—I'll be right here waiting for you."

The soft patter of rain filled the space between them, but inside, Katrina's pulse thundered as Master Herod pushed deeper.

He leaned close, breath hot against her ear as his cock sank further into her stretched hole. "Hear that?" he whispered, voice thick with cruelty. "stepdad's out there waiting patiently... while his sweet little stepdaughter gets her filthy asshole split open like a whore in heat."

Katrina let out a soft, trembling moan—part shame, part surrender—as her hips twitched back against him, her body begging without words.

Master Herod shoved forward.

Her asshole popped around the thick crown of his cock, stretching wide, trembling.

She cried out into her hand, body jolting. Papa Cain silenced her by stuffing his cock between her lips—forcing her mouth full in one thrust.

"Quiet now," he said, a dark smirk curling his lips. "You don't want stepdad hearing how much you love this, do you?"

Katrina's moan was muffled instantly as she sucked greedily, her oily hand sliding between her thighs on command.

"Two fingers," Papa Cain growled. "Finger that dripping cunt, slut, while we stretch your holes."

She obeyed.

Fingers plunged into her soaked pussy as her ass was filled inch by brutal inch. She rocked back, spit leaking down her chin, ass clenching, her face streaked with filth and tears.

"Look at this greedy little whore," Master Herod snarled, slamming deeper. "Her pussy's clenching just because her ass is full."

Katrina's muffled cry vibrated around Papa Cain's cock, spit trailing from the corners of her mouth as she fought to stay quiet. Her whole body tensed—her thighs trembling, her ass grinding back against the relentless thrusts. Her hands dug into the stone floor, knuckles white, as Master Herod's rhythm grew harsher, more punishing, like he wanted to fuck the resistance out of her soul.

Each thrust hit deeper. Harder. Dirtier.

She couldn't hold back.

A shudder ripped through her—her moan caught around the cock in her throat as her body convulsed, orgasm crashing over her like a wave. Her legs buckled, her stomach clenched, and she nearly collapsed forward from the force of it.

"Mmmff—ohhfff—fffucckkfff—fffyyeesss—mmmmmhh!" The sounds spilled from her throat in messy, garbled bursts, swallowed by the thick cock choking her as she came, her body twitching like a broken toy overwhelmed by pleasure.

Master Herod growled low, yanking out his enormous cock just as her climax hit its peak. His hands gripped her hips tight, spreading her ass roughly, eyes locked on her gaping and twitching asshole the raw evidence of what he'd done to her.

"She's wrecked," he muttered darkly. "Completely used."

Katrina whimpered through her aftershocks, mouth still full, her body twitching with overstimulation.

Papa Cain's eyes roamed over her trembling, exposed body, a wicked grin curling his lips. "Look at her gaping asshole," he growled, voice thick with hunger. "Used, shaking, and still begging for more. Fucking take her Master Herod—open her up. She's ready."

With a grunt, Master Herod yanked out of her ass—and in one brutal thrust, slammed into her pussy. The sound—wet, obscene—echoed off the stone.

Katrina cried out, her voice raw and ragged, as her body jolted forward from the force. "Ah—oh Yes!" she gasped, eyes wide, mouth slack. The sudden shift from aching stretch to wet, pulsing fullness sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through her. Her legs trembled, hips grinding instinctively, desperate to take every inch.

"I—I can't... it's so deep..." she whimpered, but her body clenched around him, betraying just how much she needed it.

Master Herod slipped two fingers into her stretched asshole, twisting slowly, licking the slick from each withdrawal.

Papa Cain gripped her head with both hands, his hips rolling forward in steady, unforgiving strokes. His cock plunged deep into her throat, each thrust silencing her cries and replacing them with wet, gurgled moans. Spit clung to her chin, eyes watering, but she didn't pull away—she leaned into it, lips stretched wide, tongue pressed flat just like he taught her. Every time he bottomed out, her throat fluttered around him, desperate to adjust, desperate to please.

Katrina shook.

Her throat was full. Her ass was filled. Her pussy was getting slammed. Her body started to convulse—knees buckling, fingers curling, every muscle tightening as her orgasm built.

And then—

"Ah—mmfff—ah—!"

She came.

A gushing, explosive squirt soaked the stone floor beneath her. Her whole body locked up, holes clenching on cock and fingers, thighs quivering violently.

They held her there.

Used. Stretched. Overflowing.

Her chest heaved. Spit ran from her lips. Her eyes fluttered open just as—

Another knock.

"Service over?" Her stepfather's voice again—still calm. Still waiting.

Katrina lifted her head, hair stuck to her face, body a ruin of oil, spit, and cum.

Her lips parted. "Almost, stepdad."

Master Herod let out a low chuckle, dark and full of promise. "Almost?" he echoed, gripping her hips tighter. "Oh no, little slut... we're just getting started." He leaned in, voice thick with filth. "Now we open your gates for real... and make you scream like the broken, dripping slut you are."

Katrina's eyes went wide, fear and heat colliding in her chest. "But... but he'll hear," she stammered, voice trembling. "I—I can't hold it in any longer."

Both men laughed—a low, wicked duet. Papa Cain slid his cock back beneath his robe, smoothing the fabric as he rose to his full height. "No worries, little slut," he said, voice suddenly calm, almost comforting. With an approving nod from Master Herod, he strode to the open doorway.

The rain's hush greeted him. Her stepfather was still patiently waiting just beyond the threshold.

Papa Cain pushed the door wider, blocking the chapel interior with his body. "Good evening," he said warmly. "She's deep in... reflection. For this next portion, she needs room to express herself." Her stepfather blinked, confused but obliging. "Oh—of course, Papa. I'll wait in the car." "Excellent," Papa Cain replied, tone soothing. "She'll join you when she's... finished." A polite nod, the crunch of gravel, and the car door closed in the distance.

Papa Cain returned, sliding the latch to a firm click behind him. His expression shifted from gentle to predatory in a heartbeat. He eyed Katrina—still on all fours, trembling, holes still glistening from use—and let a slow smile spread across his face.

"Now that stepdad's gone," he murmured, lifting his robe once more to free his thick length, "prepare to be used, fucked—raw and loud."

Katrina's pulse thundered; every muscle tensed, every nerve alight. She knew the moans she'd been swallowing would now be ripped from her throat without mercy—and the thought made her hips rise higher, offering herself up, even as a shiver of nervous anticipation raced down her spine.

Chapter 7 - Climax & Aftermath Katrina was trembling on all fours, her body glistening with sweat, holes still slick from the relentless fucking they'd already given her. Her breathing was ragged, her arms barely holding her up, her mind suspended in a haze between exhaustion and aching desire.

Papa Cain lay down beneath her on the cold stone floor, his massive cock standing upright—thick, veiny, glistening with drool mixed with precum. He looked up at her like she was nothing more than a vessel to be filled.

"Sit on it," he growled. "Let me feel that dripping cunt stretch around me again."

She hesitated for only a breath, her body trembling. Then she moved—slowly, shakily—climbing over him, hovering above his cock.

"Lower that dripping cunt onto my cock, slut. Show me what kind of chapel's whore you've become."

She froze, just for a moment. Her thighs quivered. Her boobs rose and fell. And then—slowly, shakily—she obeyed.

His massive cock, thick and dark and waiting, kissed her wet folds. She whimpered. Then lowered herself down. The stretch made her gasp—her pussy, sore and raw, wrapped around him inch by thick, throbbing inch. It was slow. Too slow. Every second, her breath caught in her throat. By the time he was fully inside, her head fell back and she moaned loud—deep, broken, needy.

"Good girl," Papa Cain rumbled beneath her. "Now grind."

She did.

Her hips rocked gently at first, trying to find rhythm through the ache. But she couldn't even catch her breath before another shadow loomed behind her.

Master Herod.

He placed one hand on her back and pushed. Her body folded forward, tits brushing Papa Cain's chest, her ass lifted higher—exposed, vulnerable, offered.

"Look at that hole," Master Herod muttered, running a thick finger along the crease of her ass. "Still gaping from my cock. Good. Makes it easier to slide right back in."

She barely managed a word before she felt it.

The pressure. The heat. The thick head of his cock pressing against her used, swollen rim.

"Oh—ah—wait—" she gasped, panic flashing in her voice.

But it was too late.

Master Herod began to press in, slow but merciless.

"Don't be scared, little slut," he growled, leaning over her, voice dripping filth. "Your ass wants it. She's begging for it—just like your cunt." She cried out, her body tightening and arching, caught between the two of them—completely owned.

The stretch burned, then bloomed, ripping a scream from her throat that echoed against the chapel walls. Her hands clawed at Papa Cain's chest. Her body buckled.

She was being split open—her pussy stuffed full from below, her asshole impaled from behind. The two massive cocks moved in a brutal rhythm, each thrust pushing her tighter, thinner, dragging moans from the very pit of her soul.

Her belly felt swollen, stretched taut between them. Every inch of her insides was being claimed—flesh grinding against flesh, her walls forced to mold around the relentless invasion.

She could feel them inside her, deep and thick, the friction between their shafts separated only by the thin barrier of her own trembling body. The sensation was too much—consuming, raw, obscene.

Her breath vanished. Her voice cracked into a moan so loud and filthy it sounded inhuman.

"You feel that?" Papa Cain whispered, voice smug. "You're ours now, slut."

Then they began to move—hard, violent, merciless.

Each thrust slammed into her, their cocks pounding her from both ends, shoving her body forward and back like a ragdoll caught between two beasts. Her screams were drowned beneath the sound of skin slapping, wetness squelching, and the low, feral grunts of men who no longer saw her as a girl—but as a hole to be filled.

She couldn't fight it. Couldn't control the way her body jolted, the way her moans became cries, the way her pussy and ass clung desperately to the thick cocks drilling her open in tandem.

Her body rocked helplessly between them, shoved forward by Master Herod's thrusts and pulled back by Cain's cock buried inside her. Her tits bounced. Her moans turned guttural. She was being fucked like a ritual—used like an offering, raw and dripping and screaming.

"Please—fuck—oh Yes—please—" she sobbed, not even knowing what she was begging for anymore.

Her body trembled violently. Her belly tightened. Her pussy clenched around Papa Cain, her asshole spasming on Master Herod's cock.

She was a vision of pure impurity—a sexy young girl with a body to die for, flawless and glistening, stretched between two old, ugly, filthy men. Her soft, tight flesh wrapped around their thick, used cocks like it was made for them.

They didn't care how beautiful she was. Didn't care how delicate her moans sounded or how innocent she had once been. To them, she was just a fucktoy now—holes to be filled, used, stretched, and broken.

And she took it.

Her pussy swallowed Papa Cain deeper. Her ass spasmed around Master Herod, both holes dripping, her body shaking with the brutal rhythm they forced upon her. She was their offering—ruined and loving every filthy second of it.

Then it hit.

The orgasm tore through her like lightning—her scream loud, uncontrolled, wild. Her body shook, her legs spread wider as liquid gushed from her pussy, soaking them all. She couldn't stop it. Couldn't think. Couldn't even breathe.

Oh Fuck—yes! Yes, please! Fuck, I'm cumming!" she cried, her voice breaking into sobs of pleasure.

"I'm yours—please—please—ahh!"

Words tumbled from her mouth—filthy, desperate, broken. She moaned. She begged. She cried out how full she felt, how her pussy and ass couldn't take any more—then gasped that she wanted it anyway. Her voice was high, trembling, soaked in pleasure and humiliation.

But they didn't stop.

They whispered filth into her ears. Master Herod grabbed her throat. Papa Cain held her hips. They repositioned her, flipped her over, one cock sliding out as the other slammed back in.

"Time to train you properly," Master Herod snarled.

They swapped places. Fucked her harder.

She was being wrecked—stretched, stuffed, dripping. The sound of skin slapping, her cries, the wetness—it filled the air like thunder. Her mind began to crack. She couldn't form words. Her mouth was open but silent.

"Gonna break you open, girl," Papa Cain growled, his cock battering her hole.

"Let us hear you scream," Master Herod hissed, fucking her deeper.

One final thrust—and she shattered.

Her back arched. Her throat tore open with a cry so loud, it felt like the walls themselves were shaking.

Her orgasm hit again—violent, gushing, out of control. Her body jerked like something had struck her down.

The men followed—groaning like beasts, their thrusts turning frantic, brutal, desperate.

Papa Cain grunted beneath her as his thick cock pulsed deep inside her pussy, swelling—then erupting. Hot, thick ropes of cum shot into her womb, filling her cunt so full it made her gasp.

At the same time, Master Herod slammed forward, buried to the hilt in her stretched, twitching asshole. He growled low as his cock throbbed violently, spilling thick, molten heat into her used asshole.

Her body clenched hard around both of them—her pussy and ass spasming, milking them, refusing to let them go. She could feel it—their cum pouring into her, coating her insides, oozing out around their shafts.

"Ahh—what's happening to me... it feels so warm..." she whimpered, dazed, broken, full.

Papa Cain chuckled darkly beneath her, still buried inside her soaked cunt. "That's our seed inside you, girl," he said, voice thick with lust. "Take it like a good little slut."

Master Herod leaned over her, his breath hot against her ear. "You were made for this—two cocks, two loads."

She was overflowing. Stuffed. Stretched and soaked in their filth.

They pulled out slowly, their cocks slick and dripping with a mix of her juices and their own thick cum. Katrina barely moved, her body twitching, mind fogged with submission. Her holes throbbed, leaking everything they had poured into her.

The two men stood over her—towering, spent, yet still hard. Their shafts glistened in the low chapel light, streaked with filth.

"On your knees," Master Herod said, gripping her jaw. "Suck us clean."

"Every drop," Papa Cain added, his voice low and commanding. "Don't waste what we gave you."

Katrina obeyed without a word. She knelt between them with her lips parting. She took them one after the other, licking them slowly, sensually, worshipfully. Her tongue slid over the veins, her lips wrapped around their tips, sucking the final dribbles of cum from each shaft.

Her face flushed. Her breath heavy.

Then silence.

Her arms gave out. She collapsed forward, her cheek pressing to the cold stone, drool and cum sliding from her open mouth.

Her legs were wide. Used. Barely twitching.

Her body was soaked—sweat, cum, and slick dripping between her thighs.

She couldn't move.

Papa Cain brushed a hand through her hair, slow and calm, like she was a tamed thing. Master Herod stood above her, watching her twitch with heavy, satisfied breath.

Master Herod crouched beside her, one hand gripping her jaw, tilting her dazed face up toward his. His voice was smooth and dark, thick with authority.

"Now be a good little whore," he murmured, "and clean yourself."

Katrina blinked slowly, still trembling, but nodded. Her hands drifted down between her legs, finding the sticky mess trailing from both ruined holes. Her fingers moved slowly, gathering what had been left inside her. The heat of it clung to her skin—thick, warm, and shameful.

She brought her fingers to her lips. Her tongue flicked out, tasting it—salty, musky, still warm from their bodies. Her breath hitched.

It was filthy. It was wrong.

And it made her moan softly as she licked them clean.

Papa Cain chuckled, satisfied. Master Herod's smirk deepened.

Chapter 8 - Rumours of Five Katrina was still on her knees, face flushed, lips slick with the last taste of filth. Her holes leaked the seed of the two men who had just used her like a ritual object—one in her pussy, the other in her ass. Her dress clung to her body, rumpled, too short to hide the mess between her thighs.

"Good slut," Master Herod said, his voice calm but laced with cruelty. "You took us well."

He turned to Papa Cain with a sly smirk. "I think the other brothers will want to taste her."

Papa Cain's lips curled into a knowing grin. "Do you think she'll be able to handle it?"

Master Herod didn't hesitate. His eyes stayed locked on Katrina's bare, leaking ass as he sneered. "That slut? She'll take the five cocks like it's nothing. Stretch her wide, stuff every hole—she'll beg for more with her filthy little moans."

Katrina's eyes widened. A flicker of something passed across her face—shock, disbelief... and something hotter beneath it. Her chest rose and fell, struggling to breathe.

"F-five cocks...?" she whispered, almost to herself. "W-what do you mean... five cocks?" Her voice cracked, caught somewhere between fear and something darker—something warm curling in her belly. Her eyes flicked between the two men, searching for mercy, but finding only smirks.

Master Herod leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "We shall see next week, Katrina. And come, you will... love what we've prepared for you."

She said nothing. She couldn't.

Shaking, she wiped her face with her hands, smearing the mix of spit and cum across her cheeks. She adjusted her short dress, tugging it down, though it did nothing to hide how ruined she looked. Her thighs were glossy with filth. Her steps wobbled as they guided her toward the chapel door.

As she stepped outside, the rain still poured—thick, tropical, unforgiving. The scent of earth and sweat filled the air. Her heels clicked against the old stones as she made her way toward the waiting car.

Behind her, the two men watched.

"She's got the ass of a whore," Master Herod muttered, eyes glued to her swaying hips.

"You should see the mother," Papa Cain replied with a low laugh. "Older. Used. But firm... and still tight."

They chuckled between themselves, sharing the kind of smirk that only wicked men could.

Katrina slid into the back seat of the black car, the leather cold against her thighs. She winced slightly as her used holes pressed into the seat.

Her stepfather sat in the front, his expression unreadable in the rearview mirror.

"That was an intense session, huh?" he said casually, almost teasing.

She forced a nervous smile. Her voice was soft, barely holding together.

"Yeah... it was liberating."

The car rolled forward into the night.

As the wheels turned, so did her thoughts. Five cocks...

How was that even possible? Would they all take her at once? Would she survive it—or want it?

Each bump in the road sent a pulse between her legs. She was still dripping. Still stretched. Still marked.

By the time they reached the house, the rain had thickened into sheets. Katrina stepped out quickly, barefoot now, heels clutched in one hand, dress soaked to her skin.

She didn't expect what came next.

As she opened the gate and hurried to the front door, a figure rushed toward her from the shadows.

"Katrina!"

She stopped dead.

It was Ethan. Standing under the porch light was Ethan. Her boyfriend. The one who wasn't supposed to be here.

"I... I came to surprise you," he said, smiling like he hadn't just walked straight into the wreckage of her double life. "Booked a flight the moment I had a break."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She froze. Her dress stuck to her skin. Her makeup was ruined. Her mouth still tasted like unwashed cock. Her pussy and asshole were still leaking.

He held her tight.

"Surprise," he whispered. "I missed you so much."

Her eyes flicked toward the streetlight. Her heart raced.

The seed of two filthy old men slid slowly down her inner thigh as she hugged her loving, unsuspecting boyfriend.

She couldn't speak. Only breathe.

And behind her eyes...

Five cocks. Five cocks. Five cocks.

The thought pulsed like a heartbeat.

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