The Visitation by JamesG

Disclaimer: The following is fiction. The story’s content does not represent the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote unlawful activity as the story describes. By continuing to read this work, you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose only of fantasy. All the characters in this story are adults. They may play different ages for the fictional character they are depicting, but they remain at all times adults.

Writer: JamesG

Subject: The Visitation

Link: LS666 Email / 28.04.2025

Author’s Note: Young Ricky prays for help from the Virgin Mary. He gets more than he bargained for.

The Visitation

The chapel is a sanctuary of shadows, the candles flickering like distant stars in the vast darkness. Ricky’s ten-year-old shoulders quiver as he kneels before the statue of the Virgin Mary, his voice a hushed whisper that echoes softly against the cold stone walls. The marble figure seems to loom over him, a silent witness to his pain.

Sniffs back a tear.

“Virgin Mary, please,” he whispers, “Help me. I can’t tell anyone else. They won’t understand. They’ll think it’s my fault.”

He reaches out tentatively, his small hand trembling as it hovers above the marble foot of the statue. The coolness of the stone feels like a lifeline in the sea of warm, suffocating fear that is his life.

“Please, Virgin Mary,” he repeats, his voice cracking, “Make him stop. I’m scared.”

With a shaky exhale, he leans his forehead against the base of the statue, the cold marble a stark contrast to his feverish skin.

“I just want to be normal,” he sobs, his voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt, “I want to play with other kids without being scared all the time.”

Ricky’s eyes squeeze shut tighter as a new wave of tears trickles down his cheeks. His grip on the statue tightens, as if by clinging to it he can somehow purge the vile touches that have stolen his innocence.

“I don’t understand why my Father does this to me. Why he touches me in places where I don’t want to be touched. He hurts me like no father ever should. I’ve been good. I’ve done everything he’s asked, please make him stop!” he whispers desperately.

In a sudden, breathtaking moment, the statue of the Virgin Mary shudders. The marble cracks, the pieces falling away like leaves in autumn, revealing warm, living flesh beneath. The figure seems to breathe in the stale air of the chapel, the fabric of the robe shivering as if coming alive. The color seeps back into the lifeless features, and the eyes blink open, a soft blue that seems to pierce the gloom.

The transformation is complete, and the Virgin Mary stands before Ricky, no longer a statue but a woman in her traditional blue and white garb. She watches him with a gentle smile, her hands folded in a pose of benevolence. She steps down from her pedestal, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor, and approaches the trembling boy.

Ricky’s eyes widen in shock and awe as he feels the cool marble turn to warm skin beneath his touch. He looks up, the tears in his eyes blurring the image of the Virgin Mary as she steps closer to him. The soft fabric of her robe whispers against the floor, and he feels the heat of her presence as she kneels beside him. His heart races, hope and fear fighting for dominance.

“You’re … real?” he whispers.

The smile she gives him is one of pure comfort, but something about it sends a shiver down his spine. She gently brushes the tears from his cheek with her thumb, and he feels an odd, unsettling tingle at her touch.

“My child, I am always with you,” she speaks in a melodious voice.

Ricky’s trembling hand falls to his side as the statue’s marble skin yields to the warmth of a living being. He stammers, trying to reconcile the reality before him with the prayers he’s whispered into the unfeeling stone for so long. The Virgin Mary’s transformation is a silent miracle, a soft symphony of shifting shadows and a sudden inhale of breath.

Her robe, once stiff and painted in lifeless tones, now flows in shimmering blue and white, the fabric whispering secrets of heaven as it brushes against the cold chapel floor. Her eyes, once vacant and unseeing, are now pools of empathy and understanding, and her smile is one that could comfort the most broken of souls. Yet, as she reaches out to him, Ricky’s mind is a tornado of confusion, the gentle touch of her hand sending a jolt of fear through his body as he remembers the harsh hands of his father.

Ricky’s eyes dart to the side, the shadows of the chapel seeming to close in around him as he forces himself to speak.

“Mary … Virgin Mary,” he whispers, his voice trembling, “My Father … he does things to me that aren’t right.”

The words stick in his throat, thick and bitter, and it’s as if the very air is straining to hear his confession. He swallows hard, his heart racing as he looks into her eyes, searching for the sanctuary he’s been denied for so long.

“He touches me in ways that make me feel dirty,” Ricky confesses, his voice barely audible over the dull thud of his pulse in his ears, “I don’t want him to do it anymore, but I don’t know how to make him stop.”

His gaze drops to his knees, the weight of his words heavy on his small frame.

“I thought if I prayed hard enough, you could help me.”

The last part is almost inaudible, a plea to a deity he’s not sure can hear him.

He looks up at the Virgin Mary with a mix of hope and trepidation, his lower lip quivering.

“My Father,” he says, his voice wavering, “He … he makes me do things, touches me in ways that hurt and scare me. It happens almost every night, and I pretend to sleep, hoping it’ll end soon.”

His voice is a mere thread, the words painfully extracted from the dark recesses of his soul.

“I hate it,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, “I hate him for making me feel this way.”

Ricky’s eyes well up again, the weight of his secret a burden too great to bear alone.

“I just want it to stop,” he whispers, the words echoing through the empty chapel like a desperate prayer.

The dam of Ricky’s emotions breaks, and he begins to cry softly, the tears tracking down his cheeks like silent rivers of pain. He recounts the harrowing details of his nightly torment, his voice a trembling whisper that seems to resonate through the stale air of the chapel.

Each word is a shard of glass in his throat, but he forces them out, as if speaking them aloud to the Virgin Mary might somehow purge the memories. He describes the fear that grips him when his father’s heavy footsteps approach his bedroom, the stale breath against his neck, the rough hands that invade his innocence. The tears flow freely now, each one a silent scream for help that has been bottled up for so long.

The Virgin Mary’s expression remains serene, a picture of compassion as she listens to Ricky’s heart-wrenching confession. Her eyes, however, hold a disturbing glint that Ricky can’t quite discern through his veil of tears. She wraps an arm around his shaking shoulders, her touch feather-light yet suffocating in its false embrace.

“Oh, my poor, sweet child,” she croons, her voice a siren’s song of empathy, “You’ve suffered so much at the hands of one who should have been your protector.”

Her hand slides down his back, lingering a moment too long at the base of his spine.

“Let me comfort you,” she murmurs, her breath a warm caress against his ear, “Let me show you what true, pure love feels like.”

Her other hand reaches out, her fingers grazing the side of his face, her intentions becoming increasingly clear as she leans closer, her smile never wavering from its saintly facade.

Ten-year-old Ricky flinches at the familiar contact, his body taut with tension as he tries to process the sudden shift in the Virgin Mary’s demeanor. Her gentle strokes feel eerily similar to his Father’s, and his stomach churns. He pulls away slightly, the warmth of her touch sending a cold shiver down his spine.

“I … I’m okay,” he stammers, his eyes searching hers for the sanctuary he had hoped to find.

The gentle squeeze of her arm around his shoulders feels more like a trap than a comfort. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the discomfort blooming in his chest.

“Thank you for listening,” he says, his voice a hoarse whisper, as he tries to stand, desperate for a semblance of control over the situation.

She tightens her grip around him slightly, keeping him close.

“You’re not okay, my dear,” she whispers, her breath a warm caress against his ear, “You’re hurting so much, and I’m here to take that pain away.”

Her hand slides down his back, her fingers tracing the line of his spine, her touch lingering in a way that is far from comforting.

“Let me help you,” she insists, her voice a seductive purr that seems to coil around his very soul.

Her eyes, once filled with empathy, now gleam with a dark hunger that Ricky can’t quite comprehend.

Ricky’s eyes widen as he feels the Virgin Mary’s grip tighten, the warmth of her touch now a prison of panic. His body stiffens, the echoes of his father’s embrace resonating in the intimate way she holds him. He tries to pull away, but she seems to have anticipated his move, her hand sliding down to hold him in place. Her gaze, once filled with compassion, now holds a glint that sends a chill through his bones. The chapel feels colder, the air heavier, as he realizes with dawning horror that he might have traded one monster for another.

“You’ve been so strong, Ricky,” she murmurs, her voice a silky coo that sends shivers down his spine, “But you need to learn to let go of your fears, to embrace the love that’s been waiting for you.”

Her hand travels down his back, her fingers playing with the hem of her own robe. She leans in, her breath a sweet, almost intoxicating scent that fills his nose.

“Help me,” she says, her voice a siren’s whisper, “Help me shed this garment that separates us. Let us be as one, as you and I were meant to be.”

The fabric of her robe slips slightly, revealing the smooth, alabaster skin beneath. Her eyes hold his, a silent demand, a challenge that sends his heart racing with fear and confusion.

The tremble in his voice is palpable as he tries to protest, his body a rigid statue of terror.

“Mary … No,” he stammers, his voice barely audible. “I … I don’t want to.”

The room seems to spin around him, the candlelight playing tricks with the shadows, turning the holy sanctuary into a prison of his own making. He tries to push her hand away, but she holds him firmly, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who was just a statue moments ago.

“Please,” he whispers, his eyes darting around the chapel, searching for a way out of the nightmare unfolding before him.

The Virgin Mary’s smile widens slightly, her eyes never leaving Ricky’s as she leans closer, her breath a gentle warmth against his cheek.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers, her voice a sweet, almost musical lilt that seems to soothe the air around them, “This is a sacred act, one of purity and love.”

Her hand moves from his shoulder to her own, her touch feather-light as she guides it to the clasp of her robe.

“You’re the chosen one, Ricky. The one I’ve been waiting for,” she croons, her voice a seductive purr that seems to wrap around him like a velvet vice, “You’re the only one who can free me from this confining garment.”

The fabric of her robe slips further, revealing the swell of her bosom beneath.

“Trust in me,” she urges, her voice a silky promise of relief from his pain, “Together, we can heal each other.”

Ricky’s heart races as he feels the Virgin Mary’s hand over his, guiding it to the clasp of her robe. His mind is a chaotic storm of fear, confusion, and a desperate need to escape. His eyes dart around the chapel, seeking divine intervention that seems cruelly absent. He tries to pull his hand away, his voice shaking.

“No, please, I don’t want to.”

But her grip is firm, almost inescapable. He watches in horror as her robe starts to part, the candlelight playing across the revealed flesh sending a cold sweat down his back. His mind screams for this to stop, but his body is frozen, trapped in the vice-like grip of terror and a new, unholy fascination.

With a grace that seems to defy the very air around them, the Virgin Mary continues her seductive dance, her eyes never leaving Ricky’s. She uses her free hand to coax his trembling fingers closer to the clasp of her robe.

“You mustn’t be afraid,” she murmurs, her voice a hypnotic purr, “This is a divine union, a testament to your faith and purity.”

The fabric of her garment falls away, revealing the flawless curve of her shoulder, the skin glowing with an otherworldly light that seems to beckon him closer. Her gaze is intense, filled with a hunger that is both terrifying and intoxicating.

“You are the chosen one,” she repeats, her voice a siren’s call that seems to resonate through his very soul, “Let us share in this holy bond.”

Her grip tightens around his wrist, pulling his hand closer to the soft mound of her barely concealed bosom.

“Feel the warmth of my love,” she breathes, her eyes never leaving his.

Her voice is a velvety command, a whisper that seems to echo through his very bones. Despite the icy terror coursing through his veins, Ricky’s hand moves of its own accord, his fingertips brushing against the cool, smooth skin of her shoulder. It’s a touch that feels both alien and eerily familiar, a dance of horror that plays out under the guise of divine intervention.

Ricky’s hand trembles as it’s drawn closer to her, his eyes squeezed shut in a silent prayer for this nightmare to end. His fingertips graze the alabaster skin of her shoulder, his mind a whirlwind of fear and revulsion. Yet, there’s something about her touch that feels almost comforting, a twisted echo of the love he’s been denied. He tries to pull away, his teeth chattering with fear, but her grasp is like iron wrapped in silk, unyielding and inescapable. His hand hovers, the warmth of her body seeping into him, a stark contrast to the cold, unyielding marble he’s known for so long.

“Don’t be shy,” she murmurs, her breath hot against his ear, “This is what you’ve been asking for, isn’t it?”

Her grip shifts, her hand sliding down to cover his, pressing it firmly against the swell of her breast. Ricky gasps, his eyes flying open in a mix of shock and horror. Her skin is so soft, so warm, and beneath his touch, he can feel the steady thrum of a heart that shouldn’t exist in a statue. She arches her back slightly, pushing herself against his hand.

“Feel the power of divine love,” she purrs, her eyes dark with a lust that seems to burn away the shadows.

Ricky’s eyes widen in horror as he feels the firmness of the Virgin Mary’s flesh beneath his trembling hand. His stomach churns, the touch of her skin triggering memories of his father’s cruel touch.

“No,” he whispers, his voice trembling, “I didn’t … I didn’t mean for this.”

But his protests are feeble, his hand trapped beneath hers. He tries to pull away, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him, but she’s too strong, her grip unyielding. He feels a hot tear slip down his cheek as her robe falls away completely, revealing the fullness of her body. Her nakedness is a blasphemous sight in the sacred chapel, and his innocence feels sullied just by looking at her. He tries to look away, but her eyes hold his, a fierce intensity that makes him feel exposed and vulnerable.

The Virgin Mary laughs softly, the sound like a crack of lightning in the quiet sanctity of the chapel.

“You didn’t mean for this?” she repeats, her voice dripping with mockery, “But this is what you’ve been praying for, isn’t it?”

She takes his hand in hers, guiding it up to cup her breast. Her skin is hot and alive, the softness of her flesh a stark contrast to the cold marble he’s been accustomed to.

“Feel the warmth of your salvation,” she whispers, her eyes burning with a hunger that’s anything but holy.

She shifts closer, her other hand reaching down to pull aside the fabric of her robe, exposing the dark curls between her legs.

“You’re the chosen one, Ricky,” she says, her voice a dark seduction, “And I’m here to show you the true meaning of divine love.”

Ricky’s 10 year old eyes widen in horror, and his body stiffens as he feels the warm, living flesh beneath his hand. His stomach turns, and he tries to jerk away, but she holds him firmly in place.

“No,” he whispers, the word a desperate plea.

The smell of incense and candlewax mixes with the sudden, musky scent of her arousal, and bile rises in his throat.

“Please, let me go,” he begs, his voice cracking with fear.

His heart hammers in his chest, and he feels the warmth of his own urine as he wets himself in terror. The warmth of her skin is a grotesque parody of the comfort he’d hoped to find, and he wants nothing more than to flee this twisted version of his savior.

Her smile sharpens into something predatory as she leans closer, her breath hot against his cheek.

“You wanted salvation, didn’t you, my sweet Ricky?” she murmurs, her grip on his hand tightening, “And salvation requires sacrifice.”

She guides his hand to her sex, the softness and heat of her folds a stark contrast to the cold marble of the statue he’d prayed to for so long.

“Feel the power of God within me,” she says, her voice a dark seduction that seems to echo through the chapel, “Your purity will be my vessel.”

Her other hand reaches up to caress his cheek, her touch a lie wrapped in velvet.

“You’re going to give me what I need,” she whispers, her eyes gleaming with a hunger that makes him want to scream.

Ricky’s breath hitches in his throat as he feels the damp heat of her sex pressing against his palm. His mind reels, trying to reconcile the horror before him with the divine being he’s worshipped all his life.

“No,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, the word a mere breath of protest.

His hand feels alien, moving of its own accord as she guides him, her breath hot and moist against his neck. His heart is a frantic bird, desperately trying to escape the cage of his chest. He tries to pull away, but she’s too strong, her hand clamping down on his with a strength that belies her gentle demeanor.

Her touch feels wrong, a perversion of the comfort he’d sought in her marble embrace. He feels the first hot tear slip down his cheek as she urges his hand to explore her further, her own hand sliding up his thigh, inching closer to the terrified child’s most vulnerable spot. The chapel’s shadows seem to close in around them, the candles flickering like malevolent eyes that see everything but offer no salvation.

Her eyes gleam with a dark, twisted pleasure as she watches the fear dance across Ricky’s face.

“Sshh,” she coos, her breath a warm whisper against his ear, “Let me show you the true power of faith.”

Her hand slides higher up his thigh, her touch insistent and demanding. He tries to squirm away, his small body trembling with fear, but she holds him firmly in place.

“You’re mine,” she says, the sweetness of her voice a stark contrast to the iron in her grip.

She presses his hand more firmly against herself, her hips moving in a slow, rhythmic motion that makes him feel sick. Her other hand reaches for his pants, her nails scraping against the fabric as she fumbles with the buttons. Ricky’s mind is a screaming void, his thoughts a cacophony of terror and despair.

He tries to push her away, his hand slipping in his own wetness as he fights against her, but she’s relentless, her movements calculated and precise. Her eyes never leave his, the hunger in them growing with every passing moment.

“You’re going to give me what I want,” she murmurs, her voice a dark promise, “And in return, I’ll give you the salvation you’ve been begging for.”

Ricky’s body is a rigid board of fear as the Virgin Mary’s hand deftly unbuttons his pants, the fabric parting to expose his trembling flesh. He feels the heat of her hand against him, and a part of him wants to shrink away, to hide from the horror that unfolds. But he’s trapped, her grip like a vice around his wrist, guiding his hand to touch her in a way that feels both holy and profane.

His mind reels as he feels her warm, wet flesh beneath his fingertips, and he wants to retch at the thought of what’s happening. She whispers sweet nothings into his ear, her breath a hot wind that feels like the fires of hell. Her hand is a serpent, slithering up his thigh, her touch leaving a trail of cold fire in its wake.

He tries to scream, but the sound is strangled in his throat, a silent cry that echoes through the chapel. Her eyes are the only thing he can focus on, a twisted mirror reflecting the agony in his own soul. He feels a tear slide down his cheek, a silent rebellion against the wickedness that has claimed his sanctuary.

“Sshh, my darling,” she whispers, her voice a sweet caress that belies the iron in her touch, “Don’t resist the will of the divine.”

With a swiftness that belies her gentle demeanor, she pushes Ricky down onto the cold stone floor. He feels the roughness of the ground against his back as she straddles him, her eyes burning with an insatiable hunger. Her hand slides from his wrist to his chest, her nails digging in slightly as she leans over him. Her breath is hot and demanding, her mouth a mere inch from his.

“You will be my vessel,” she murmurs, her voice a seductive snarl, “You will give me what I need, and in return, I will grant you the salvation you crave.”

She kisses him, her lips a bruise against his, her tongue invading his mouth, tasting of honey and ash. He tries to struggle, but she’s too strong, her body pressing down on him like a mountain of sin. Her hand guides his, her hips moving in a sinful rhythm that matches the beating of his heart.

Ricky’s thoughts are a tumult of panic as he feels her weight settle on top of him, her flesh warm and alive against his own. The coldness of the stone floor seeps into his bones, a stark reminder of the horror that unfolds around him. He tries to push her away, his small hands futile against the onslaught of her lust. Her kiss is a violation, a desecration of the sacred bond he’d hoped to find.

His mind is a screaming cacophony, a symphony of terror that drowns out the whispers of his soul. He feels her hand guiding his, the touch of her flesh against his palm a blasphemy that sends waves of revulsion through his body. His eyes squeeze shut, his mind racing for a way to escape, but his body is a prison, bound by her will and the crushing weight of her divine form.

The Virgin Mary’s eyes flash with a malicious glee as she feels Ricky’s struggle beneath her. Her hand slides from his chest to his waist, her nails digging into his skin as she leans in closer. She captures his mouth in a bruising kiss, her tongue invading his, a serpent’s dance of seduction. Her free hand trails down his quivering stomach, her fingertips lightly brushing against the tender flesh of his inner thighs. He tries to squirm away, but her grip is unyielding, her hand moving with a purpose that fills him with dread.

“Open your eyes,” she commands, her voice a seductive purr, “Look at me while I save you.”

Her hand reaches his most vulnerable spot, her fingers brushing against his tight asshole, a promise of pain and pleasure wrapped in a twisted embrace.

Ricky’s eyes fly open in a silent scream, his body rigid with fear as her hand moves to his most private part. He tries to jerk away, but she’s too strong, too fast. Her fingers trace the delicate skin around his anus, her touch a blasphemous caress.

“Mary,” he gasps, the name a plea, “Please, no.”

But she’s relentless, her mouth descending to claim his trembling member, her tongue wrapping around him in a dance of dark ecstasy. His body responds despite his fear, a traitorous betrayal to the horror that unfurls within him.

She chuckles darkly against his skin, the sound sending shivers down his spine. Her hand moves with a newfound urgency, her fingers slipping into the tight ring of his anus, stretching him with a cruel gentleness that feels like a violation of his very soul. Her mouth is a fiery brand, her lips moving in a rhythm that speaks of dark desires.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs around his cock, her tongue flicking against the sensitive head, “My little sacrifice, my sweet salvation.”

Her eyes gleam with a malicious joy, watching the battle of fear and arousal play out on his face.

Ricky’s ten-year-olds eyes squeeze shut as he feels the Virgin’s intrusion, her finger pushing deeper into his body, the sensation a mix of pain and a perverse form of pleasure that makes his stomach roil. He tries to push her away, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Mary, please,” he begs, his body betraying him as it responds to her touch despite the fear that floods his veins.

His thoughts are a tangled web of panic and confusion, his mind unable to reconcile the divine with the depraved.

Her laughter echoes through the chapel, a sound that seems to shake the very foundations of his faith.

“Look at me,” she commands, her voice a dark symphony of desire, “Look at the one who will save you.”

Her grip tightens around his cock, her movements growing more insistent as she feels his body respond. Her other hand slides up to cup his face, forcing his eyes to meet hers. Her eyes are pools of shadow, her smile a twisted parody of maternal love.

“You’re going to cum for me,” she whispers, her breath a hot wind against his cheek, “You’re going to give me your purity, your innocence.”

Tears stream down Ricky’s face as he feels the Virgin Mary’s finger push deeper into his body. He’s torn between the pain and the strange, unwelcome pleasure that floods him, his young mind reeling from the horror. His eyes lock with hers, filled with a desperate plea for mercy that’s lost in the sea of darkness that now defines her gaze.

“Mary,” he whispers, the name a prayer for salvation.

But she’s not listening, her eyes focused on his trembling form, her hunger growing with every gasp that escapes his lips.

“Call me, Mother,” she corrects him, her voice a seductive purr as she withdraws her finger, only to replace it with another.

She wraps her warm, wet mouth around the head of his cock, her tongue swirling in a way that sends bolts of agonizing pleasure through his body. Her hand moves in a furious rhythm, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his inner thighs.

“You’re going to come for me,” she whispers, her eyes never leaving his, “And when you do, you’ll understand what true salvation feels like.”

Her fingers push deeper, the pain and pleasure converging into a maelstrom that steals his breath away.

Ricky’s eyes are wide with terror, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He tries to push her away, his small hands trembling against her firm, unyielding body.

“No,” he whispers, the word a feeble protest.

But his body responds to her touch, betraying him with each pulse of pleasure she coaxes from him. His cock throbs in her mouth, the sensation a mix of pain and a dark, twisted ecstasy that he can’t comprehend.

She smirks, her eyes gleaming with a malevolent light that seems to pierce through Ricky’s soul. Her tongue swirls around his cock, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin in a way that sends shockwaves of pain and pleasure through him. Her other hand moves faster, her fingers invading his body with a ferocity that matches her mouth.

“Call me, Mother,” she whispers again, her voice a dark seduction, “Call me,. Mother and I’ll give you what you need.”

His voice cracks as he whispers, “Mother,” the word a desperate attempt to appease the monster that has his innocence in its clutches.

His body responds to her touch, a treacherous betrayal that fills him with self-loathing. He feels her finger sliding deeper into his ass, the pain a stark counterpoint to the pleasure building in his groin.

“That’s it,” she purrs, her mouth a vise of pleasure and pain as she takes him deeper, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside of his shaft.

Her eyes gleam with a malicious joy as she watches the fear and confusion on his face. Her fingers begin to move in a relentless rhythm, her nails scraping against the delicate skin of his anus, a brutal reminder of the power she wields over him.

“Give it to me,” she whispers, her voice a dark seduction that seems to coil around his very soul.

Ricky’s body arches off the cold stone floor, his eyes squeezed shut as the Virgin’s tongue works its dark magic. His thoughts are a jumble of fear and confusion, the taste of her holy mouth a twisted mockery of the comfort he’s known. The pain in his ass is a sharp, searing agony, and the memory of his father’s abuse floods his mind. Yet, despite the horror, his body responds, his hips jerking involuntarily as he feels the inexorable build of his orgasm.

“Ah, yes,” she hisses, her voice a dark symphony of victory.

She feels his body tense, her own pleasure building with every whimper that escapes his lips. Her hand moves faster, her nails raking against the delicate flesh of his anus, the sound echoing through the quiet chapel like a profane hymn. Her mouth moves in a frenzied rhythm, her cheeks hollowing with each suck. She feels him begin to buck, the beginnings of his climax a sweet nectar she craves.

Ricky’s body feels like it’s on fire, his senses overwhelmed by the twisted blend of pain and pleasure that the Virgin Mary inflicts upon him. He’s trapped under her, her eyes gleaming with a hunger that’s anything but holy. His mind is a whirlwind of fear and confusion as her fingers plunge into his ass, the sensation bringing back a flood of memories from his father’s abuse.

His breath comes in ragged gasps, his eyes squeezed shut as he tries to escape the reality that unfolds around him. The heat builds in his loins, a treacherous betrayal of his fear. He feels himself start to cum, his body jerking against his will as the Virgin Mary’s mouth continues its relentless assault on his cock. His orgasm is a silent scream, a white-hot burst of agony that seems to fill the very air with his despair.

She feels the first spurt of his cum, the hot liquid filling her mouth with a bitter taste of innocence lost. Her eyes bore into his, the seduction in her gaze turning to something more sinister as she continues to pump her fingers into him, the movements punctuated by the fervent suckling of her mouth. Her nails dig deeper, the pain bringing a twisted smile to her lips as she feels his body tense and convulse beneath her. “You’re mine now,” she whispers, her words a dark promise as she swallows his 10 year old seed.

Ricky’s body shakes uncontrollably as the Virgin Mary’s wicked touch forces him to climax. Each pulse of pleasure feels like a knife in his soul, a painful reminder of his father’s abuse. His eyes fly open, and he stares into the abyss of her eyes, no longer filled with compassion but with a dark hunger that seems to devour the very essence of him.

The chapel’s shadows dance around them, a silent witness to his desecration. His orgasm is a silent scream, a testament to the horror of his situation. He can’t help but remember his father’s harsh hands, the cruel twist of his smile, and the way his body used to feel just before the pain began. The taste of his own fear and despair is bitter on his tongue as he succumbs to the Virgin’s depravity.

The Virgin Mary’s smile widens as she feels Ricky’s body succumb to her touch, his orgasm a silent symphony of fear and pleasure. Her mouth moves faster, her cheeks hollowing as she greedily takes in his essence, his youthful seed a dark communion. Her fingers in his ass push deeper, the sound of his painful whimpers music to her ears.

“Yes,” she murmurs, her voice a velvet snarl, “Give it all to me.”

She watches him with a hunger that seems to burn brighter with every beat of his racing heart, her eyes gleaming with a malicious triumph. Her other hand wraps around his cock, her grip tight and unforgiving, milking every last drop of his innocence from him. His body jerks and trembles as she continues to fuck him with her hand, her movements unrelenting even as his climax subsides. She pulls away, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his softening member, and licks her lips with a slow, deliberate motion that makes his skin crawl.

Ricky’s eyes are wide with horror as he watches the Virgin Mary’s lips pull away from his cock, a trail of saliva connecting them. He tries to push her away, his body trembling with revulsion.

“No, please,” he begs, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The taste of his own fear and despair fills his mouth, a bitter pill he cannot swallow. He feels her fingers inside him, a brutal intrusion that echoes the abuse of his father, and his mind reels with the memory of his father’s harsh laughter and the stench of sweat and alcohol. He can’t help but let out a choked sob as she continues to violate him, her eyes gleaming with a dark, twisted satisfaction.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she withdraws her fingers from Ricky’s bloodied asshole, the wet sound echoing through the chapel like the ring of a funeral bell. She holds them up to his face, the crimson stains stark against her alabaster skin.

“Now, my sweet,” she says, her voice a silken threat, “It’s time to cleanse your mouth with your own offering.”

Her eyes glint with a malicious joy as she watches the terror unfold across his tear-stained face.

Ricky’s eyes widen in horror as he sees the blood on her fingers, a stark reminder of the violation he’s endured. His stomach churns, and the taste of bile fills his mouth as she brings them closer, the coppery scent of his own blood mingling with the musk of her arousal.

The memory of his father’s abuse crashes over him like a tidal wave, his body shaking with a revulsion that seems to shake the very foundation of his soul. He tries to turn his head away, but she’s too fast, her grip on his chin unforgiving. “No,” he whispers, his voice trembling with fear. But she’s relentless, forcing his mouth open with a cruel twist of her fingers.

Her eyes gleam with a perverse delight as she feels the resistance in his jaw, her fingers slick with a mix of his blood and her own desire.

“Taste your salvation,” she hisses, pushing her fingers into his mouth, the metallic tang of his own fear mingling with the sweetness of her skin.

Her grip on his chin tightens, forcing his mouth to close around her digits.

“Suck them clean,” she commands, her voice a dark symphony of lust.

Ricky’s eyes widen with horror, and he tries to clamp his mouth shut, but she’s too strong, her hand like a vice. The taste of his own blood fills his mouth, and he gags, his mind reeling with the memories of his father’s cruel touch. He feels her fingers push past his teeth, her nails scraping the tender inside of his cheeks. The coppery taste is a grim reminder of the abuse he’s suffered, the pain in his ass a stark echo of the violation he’s endured.

She watches with a twisted smile as he gags, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Swallow it,” she whispers, her voice a dark caress, “It’s the sweet taste of your salvation.”

Her fingers move deeper, her thumb pressing against the roof of his mouth, forcing his tongue to move against her digits. She laughs, a sound that seems to shake the very air, as he struggles, her hand a vice around his chin.

Ricky’s eyes are wide with terror, and his stomach roils as he’s forced to taste his own blood. The fear of his father’s abuse crashes over him like a wave, and he feels a deep sense of violation as the Virgin Mary’s fingers invade his mouth. He tries to bite down, but she’s too quick, her grip too firm. Her laughter is a knife in his soul, a reminder that he’s powerless before her.

His mind is a storm of agony and despair as he’s forced to endure this new form of abuse. He feels her hand release his chin, and his mouth opens involuntarily as she pulls her fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva and blood. He gasps for air, his eyes searching the chapel for a way out, for a divine intervention that never comes.

Withdrawing her bloodied fingers from his mouth, the Virgin Mary’s laughter fills the chapel, a sound so vile it seems to corrupt the very air around them. She stands, her human form radiant with a newfound power that seems to pulse with a dark energy.

“Thank you, my dear,” she says, her eyes gleaming with a sadistic joy, “You’ve given me what I needed.”

Her hand lingers over his trembling body, a final caress before she steps back, her form flickering like a candle in the wind.

The world around him seems to shift and twist as the Virgin Mary’s form fades back into the statue he knew before. The cold stone beneath him feels like a mercy compared to her warm, living flesh. He’s left trembling, his body bruised and bloodied from her brutal ministrations. His eyes are locked on the statue, watching as the last of her humanity drains away, leaving behind the cold, lifeless visage of his protector turned predator.

The statue of the Virgin Mary looms over him, a silent sentinel of his shattered innocence. Her marble eyes seem to gleam with a knowing malice as Ricky stumbles to his feet, his body a testament to the horror he’s suffered. He pulls his pants up over his trembling legs, the fabric sticky with his own blood and the Virgin’s perverse essence.

His legs wobble as he tries to stand, his clothes sticking to his bruised and violated flesh. He can feel the heaviness of his own blood and the Virgin’s saliva drying on his skin, a grim reminder of the perverse communion that has left him shattered. He stumbles toward the chapel door, his mind racing with the horror of what’s occurred, the sanctity of his prayers transformed into a nightmare of depravity.

As Ricky exits the chapel, the heavy oak door creaks shut behind him, swallowing the echoes of his whimpers. The cobblestone path leading to his home feels like a walk through hell, each step a silent scream of agony and despair. The once-comforting scent of incense is now a nauseating perfume that clings to his soul. The world outside is bathed in the soft glow of twilight, oblivious to the darkness that has claimed him. 8th The journey home is a blur of pain and fear. Each step is heavier than the last, his young body carrying the weight of a thousand sins. He clutches his torn shirt, trying to cover the evidence of the Virgin’s depravity. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, a battle between his shattered faith and the cold reality that has claimed him. The sky above seems to weep, mirroring the tears that stain his cheeks.

Ricky’s legs feel like lead as he stumbles up the steps to his small cottage. The door seems to loom before him, a gateway to a new kind of hell. His hand trembles as he reaches for the handle, the cold metal biting into his skin. The creak of the hinges feels like the final judgment, announcing his return to a place that no longer feels like a sanctuary.

The warm light from within the house spills out onto the cobblestone path, a stark contrast to the chilling shadows that cling to him like a second skin. As the door swings open, the scent of a roasting meal fills his nostrils, a reminder of the façade of normalcy that his life has become. His father’s silhouette looms in the doorway, a monster waiting to claim its next victim.

Ricky’s father, a tall and burly man with a cruel glint in his eye, stands in the doorway, his breath reeking of alcohol. His face is etched with the lines of a hard life, and his beard is unkempt. His eyes narrow at the sight of his son, his hand gripping the doorframe tightly.

“Where have you been, boy?” he asks, his voice a low growl, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The anticipation in his tone sends a shiver down Ricky’s spine, a grim reminder of what’s to come.

Ricky’s eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape that isn’t there. His heart hammers in his chest as he takes in the shadowy corridor that leads to his father’s bedroom. The flicker of candlelight casts eerie shadows, and the soft murmur of his father’s voice sends a shiver down his spine.

“Come,” he says, his words a dark invocation, “You know what must be done.”

Ricky’s legs move on their own accord, carrying him down the hallway to the room that has become his personal hell.

THE END