Syncletia awoke in her cell. It was still dark. The dream clung to her vividly. Fire and thorns, tangled together. The shape of a cross silhouetted on the wall of a pine-built lodge, above a bed. As she looked at the cross, a shadow from behind her loomed over her shoulders, the shape of horns cast either side of the wooden crucifix. A hulking shape behind her, solid, hard, and heavy. She could hear heavy breath, and feel the compression of the weight of the being on the floorboards behind her. The clumping sound of a hoof.
That was always when she woke. Try as she might, it was difficult to examine her feelings towards the dream. It was always the same. She didn’t feel fear specifically. It was more excitement, nervousness. The vision of the crucifix and the horned visitor both stirred anxiety and arousal in equal measure. There was nothing she could make of it. Her dreams were a distraction in any case.
She was awake, and therefore was instantly, almost catatonically horny. She needed to cum in way that seared into her soul. Her snatch burned with scalding lascivious heat, the velvety pink flesh of her dripping pussy drenchingly soaked with slick ejaculate. Part gasping, part snarling, she seized the thick black rubber implement on her bedside table and shoved it into her slippery cooze. The item, in fact a thick, shiny dildo in the shape of a crucifix, had a footlong section in the shape of a brawny, vascular penis that she hilted into the depths of her sopping snatch, slid up her pussy and shook her into a convulsive, squirting orgasm within the first five or so strokes of the hefty pole up her slit.
The explosion of gelatinous juices that spewed in a series of splattering, bursting sprays drenched the sheets of her bed beneath her and collected in the deep grooves of the ridged plateau of stomach muscles, running down the etches between the hard and sculptured ridges of abdominals into the central valley. She withdrew the crucifix dildo with a squelch that echoed loudly in the confines of her small room.
Her cell at the convent was bare and austere, befitting her calling. A bed, bedside table, washstand and a large wardrobe with a full-length mirror. It was said that decorations clouded the mind, but austerity focused it. Heaving her last convulsing sign in the afterglow of the masturbation, she rose, washed her face, and surveyed herself in the mirror.
Syncletia was born post Christ’s fall, and it showed. She was the recipient of God’s curse – or blessing, depending on how you looked at it – in the most extreme and exaggerated way. She was tall and unbelievably statuesque, her skin lustrously deep and brown, gloriously tanned, with lean arms and a graceful neck that flowed into a clavicle across which the word WHORE read in a tattoo of stylised gothic script. The pair of tits that stuck out of her chest were literally the size and shape of bowling balls, the topmost curves of the bulging globes not far from her chin, projecting out of her shredded torso, the monstrous dimensions of the protruding pair of orbs inflating her silhouette out at the top. Studded into the sides of the deep ridges of muscle that rippled down her waist were a series of silver piercings, which interlinked with the swirl of tattoos that spiralled up from her groin that flowered all over her candied caramel skin, the black geometry curving over her hips in stylised shapes and glyphs. Her pussy was shaved, pierced through the clit, with a tattoo of a cross on her pubic mound above it. Each of her glutes stuck out like a cannonball from her rear, her luscious, round hips blossoming behind her into two bronzed spheres of flesh. Her incredibly long and shapely legs had smooth flares of quad muscles defined against the flanks of her thighs. A sleeve of tattoos covered one arm. She had long blonde hair except for where an undercut was closely shaved down one side of her head. Her face was sublime: smoky, sultry, hypnotic watery blue eyes, an angular jawline and a pair of thick, plump, permanently pouting lips.
Even amongst the other nuns of the convent, Syncretia stood out. Abandoned as a baby on the doorstep of the convent eighteen years ago, she had excelled in everything, her body developing as fast as he other capacities, until she had long ago outstripped her teachers. Her sisters held her a little in awe, thinking her a saint in the making. There were hints from her superiors that special missions awaited her.
Syncletia dressed herself. First, the wimple. There were many kinds of these. Some skintight and more like hoods, some latex. The one she wore today was classic. In shiny black PVC the material framed her face and wrapped tightly around her neck, a sort of short bib with a stylised cross on it covering her tattooed clavicle, her massive tits ballooning out below it. The customary white band rounded her forehead, with the same black PVC issuing out of the top and falling down her back. Using shiny black tape, Syncletia pasted a small pair of X’s over her nipples, donned a pair of black, shiny, skintight elbow-length fingerless gloves, and shimmied into the short, single frill of a PVC skirt that sat on top of her ass and completely showed her pussy, which was itself covered by the tiniest scrap of a thong, the straps cutting into the lush flesh over her hips.
Shoving a butt-plug with a stylised cross into her asshole, rosary beads dangling out of it and jangling between her legs as she walked, Syncletia selected a pair of black shiny thigh-length stripper boots slit down the side and showing flesh through the places where they were tied, with platform soles and eight-inch heels.
It was better than mortal man deserved.
Syncletia led an austere life, eating only bread, drinking water, and supplementing her diet with a balanced intake of other colourless and odourless nutrients. As a consequence, her senses were continually aflame and bloodhound sharp.
She could smell the precum oozing from the tip of the monstercock waiting for her in the confession booth from here.
