DISCLAIMER: The following is fiction. The content of the story is not representative of 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 any unlawful activity such as is depicted in the story. 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 that they are depicting but they remain at all times adults. All Rights Reserved © 2023 LITTLESALLY666.

STORY CODES: LGBT, Transformation, Young Ones, WS, Coercion, Corruption, NC, Rape, Sadism, MC, Blasphemy, Demons, Supernatural, Evil themes

AUTHORS NOTES: This story is a bit of a composite of other stories and was originally done as an erotic writing competition in which I got the runner-up prize.

CREATED: 13.02.2017 / REVISITED: 19.08.2023



LUST. A four-letter word that is so heavy with expectant meaning of one’s intense desire. And, lust comes in so many forms. To covet wine, wealth, power, and sex, is omnipresent and permeates in every aspect of life. It is the struggle of life. Survival depends upon it. But, I do not hear to talk about the mundane, or human lust. The lust that interests me, transcends even life itself. It is a lust that reaches out from beyond what is natural to that which is considered supernatural. The protagonist of this story is a very young girl called Anastasia.

Coming from a religious family, she is sent to live a life of piousness in the service of the Lord. Unfortunately, she falls into a nest of evil, devil-worshiping nuns. Contrary to their stated beliefs, these religious zealots seek sexual copulation with demons as a means to attain their carnal gratification by offering them the young girls they induct into their ranks. Following the only lead in the case, a female detective, Whitehall, finds a diary written by the hapless young protagonist. She becomes interested in the story leading up to the disastrous fire that supposedly claimed the lives of all in the monastery.


The smoldering remains of the hilltop monastery came into sight. It was a desolate place. None of the inhabitants would have stood a chance of escape unless they had jumped from the battlements to a certain death below. Detective Whitehall was the only female detective on the local force and a devout Christian. Arriving at the scene, she met uncertain circumstances that would make her job that much harder as the charred bodies of those who had perished in the fearsome blaze were removed in white body bags.

“The body count is mounting up,” stated the coroner as she passed him on the way up the blackened entry point, “Nobody could have made it out alive. We’ve even found some infants. Actually, there were many infants …” the coroner passed her a face mask, “You’re going to need this.”

Detective Whitehall nodded and accepted the cloth face mask and placed its straps around her ears.

“Where do we start?” asked Constable Fisher.

“I haven’t got the faintest,” she replied and lead them into the column of rescue workers, stretcher-bearers, firemen, and officials.

Inside the smell of death was omnipresent. The firemen had pointed towards the basement levels and Whitehall and Fisher had both taken out their flashlights anticipating the lower levels of light in these darkened recesses.

Some of the internal walls had collapsed in the heat of the fire and all the wooden interior fittings had burned like a tinderbox. It seemed that some parts were worse than others. In a section that had for the most part remained intact, Whitehall found a small leather-clad diary that had remained unaffected by the smoke, flames, and eventually the water that the fire crew had used to dose the blaze. She held out little hope in finding much about the circumstances that had brought about the devastating fire, but idly she flicked through the damaged pages.

‘What is it?” Asked Fisher.

“Nothing.” Replied Whitehall as she tucked the diary into her deep jacket pocket.


It had been a long night and it was not until she reach her flat in the old downtown that Whitehall realized that she had left the crime scene with the diary still in her pocket. Why she had taken it from the burnt-out monastery was still a mystery to herself. She had just done it. Maybe intuitively? It had been a long day with no answers … Only many unanswered questions. She would have to await the fire investigation findings to have any idea about the source of the fire and if there was any foul play involved.

She had showered away the ash and the grief; and had slipped into her comfy cotton sweatpants and t-shirt before she remembered the diary. Whitehall retrieved it from her jacket pocket and lounged across her couch with a stiff nightcap. There was reports to do tomorrow; further work at the morgue; cross-referencing evidence with other departments. She blinked heavily and touched the fine gold crucifix that huge around her neck.

The diary was not in perfect condition. It was slightly damaged by both water and heat, but miraculously the internal pages were intact. She turned to the last entry in the book, dated the night before the fire. The flowing handwriting that had started off so incredibly neat and scholarly in its cursive style, had been reduced to a scratched scrawl that repeated one word over and over in increasing eligibility; the word LUST, was written over and over; LUST. LUST. LUST.

Whitehall flicked backward through several pages to quickly scan various entries some made days before, some made weeks before, and then eventually made months before the day of the fire. She figured out that the writer was a novice nun, named Anastasia who was a newcomer to the Order of The Brides of Christ. The narrative was a little difficult to comprehend for two reasons. The first was that the writer was obviously very young and lacked the articulation necessary to make sense of the strange happening. Secondly, based on what she had observed and the context of these observations they seemed hard to believe, especially for a committed Christian … a conservative Christian, whose beliefs were formed from her family’s strict orthodox upbringing.

As Whitehall read entry by entry, a picture began to form in her mind. LUST. A picture that shocked her beyond explanation. LUST. LUST. A picture too grotesque to comprehend. LUST. LUST. LUST…


Anastasia was twelve years old when she was sent by her family to the old monastery. Her family were deeply religious; her father had been a local priest; her mother had been a church missionary; so it was no surprise that their only daughter was to become a novice nun and join the secluded Order of The Brides of Christ. However, the Order was an obscure sect that believed in the fore-coming of the Antichrist and saw themselves as the last outpost of humanity’s slide into popularism Christianity that had somehow ‘lost its way’. They practiced strange rituals and rites that they believed drove evil from them and saw the impurities of lust, as a scourge to be fought at all costs.

Saying a tearful goodbye to her beloved family, she left the creature comforts of their picturesque village home to be taken on the fifty-mile journey to the remote and forbidding monastery of the Brides of Christ that was precariously perched on the rocky hilltop of Mount Isabella. The old monastery was located in a barren place, devoid of any life, other than that of the 150 or so novices and nuns that lived their monastic existence hidden behind the castle-like walls of the fifteenth-century Gothic monastery.

After the novice’s pilgrimage, she arrived at the gates. Her father and mother said a tearful goodbye and she was left on her own outside the imposing entrance. The pre-teen drew in a breath of anticipation. She knew that she wanted to dedicate her life to the service of God Almighty, but still, her heart fluttered in fear of the unknown. Anastasia was greeted as the portcullis opened by a sour old nun called Sister Karina. The austere Sister was in her mid-forties and had been at the Sisterhood most of her adult life. She looked at the pretty young thing without expression. Maybe there was a hint of disdain for the girl’s youthfulness that the nun no longer possessed.

“It has been ordained, unless specifically allowed under her instruction, by the Mother Superior that speech is strictly forbidden within our monastery,” explained Sister Karina, “You will take an oath of silence and unquestioning allegiance to the Mother Superior. Her word is gospel here. You understand?”

Anastasia nodded.

“You are no longer a daughter of your parents, but a Bride of Christ. Only the chosen ones will be afforded the ‘Pleasure of the Lord’ and the rest of us must live our days in preparation, as the ‘Day of the Antichrist is Cometh’ and we must be ready. Now, steady yourself, your ordeal will begin immediately.”

Sister Karina made the sign of the cross with her fingers across her thin body and turned to lead the way. The chapel bell tolled across the battlements and broke the awkward silence. Then they started to make their way across the cold grey courtyard that was empty of life. On the opposite side of the court, they passed through an arched passageway flanked by ugly gargoyles and down a steep set of stone stairs into the poorly illuminated interior of the monastery proper.

After some four or five hundred yards of walking through corridors left and right, they finally arrived at a room filled with only backless benches that all faced in the direction of a looming wooden crucifix. Anastasia was relieved to see other young faces there. Young girls about her age, some maybe thirteen, some maybe eleven years old. It was obvious that they were all here for the same reason as she was, to be inducted into the Order of The Brides of Christ. The older nun, Sister Karina, indicated wordlessly with her pointing finger that Anastasia was to take a seat with the other new novices. Anastasia tried to smile at the young girl seated next to her but caught cast her eyes down immediately, as she caught the scolding eye of Sister Karina.

“Be quiet now within thy self. The Lord be with you. Your Mother Superior will arrive shortly.” She was now addressing all of the dozen or so new recruits as she handed out black jacketed books that could be no other publication than the Holy Bible.

Young Anastasia wiped the rolling tear from her cheek. She glanced upwards upon the deformed features of Jesus Christ the Savior. The Son of Almighty God. How he had suffered for their sins. The sins of man. The sins of the world. She looked at the bleeding wounds; where the iron nails had been driven through the vulnerable flesh and bone of his wrists and ankles; from the crown of razor-sharp thorns that pierced his scalp.

The mockery was terrible. Betrayed by his own. Their messiah was persecuted for the sins of others. The sins of greed, lust, and devilment. She wanted to believe in his resurrection and ascension to join his heavenly father. But something bothered her on an almost subconscious level. The pain was almost too much to comprehend. She pressed the heavy bible firmer against her lap. She hoped that she would be accepted into the Holy Order of the Brides of Christ. She hoped that she could play her part and serve the greater good with the life she had been given.

The door creaked with the sound of pain and the crippled old Mother Superior entered with two other older nuns. She hobbled awkwardly and stood immediately below the crucifix. She made the sign of the cross with her fingers and then turned to face her pre-teen audience of expectant girls. Her lips curved as she frowned at the new bunch of potential novice sisters as they all sat impatiently before her.

“Be aware that the vow you take before me today is not to be taken lightly. You are no longer in the bosom of your families. Here, you serve the LORD. The ONE TRUE GOD. Praise the LORD.”

“Praise THE ONE. AMEN,” added Sister Karina and the two other nuns attending.

The old woman’s voice strained and broke in several places, making the words sound painful and awesome. Her disfigurement showed a deep well of anguish and agony, that Anastasia could only equate to her service and devotion to God. The Mother Superior leaned against Sister Karina who seemed to nod at the gravity of the words spoken.

“Your vow is one of silence. Your vow is one of obedience. Your vow is one of unquestionable loyalty to the Order. Your vow is one that cannot be revoked. In vowing yourself to ME and to The Order, you will become a BRIDE; and with your mind, body, and soul, you will be betrothed to THE ONE!”

“Praise THE ONE. AMEN,” replied the sisterhood.

“Then let it be done. Remove thy clothing, forsake thy possessions, don the gild of the Sisterhood, and let your journey to being a BRIDE of THE ONE begin.”

“Praise THE ONE. AMEN.”

There was a slight pause. And then the young girls all began to strip from the clothing that they had arrived in. The sisters collected them and dosed their naked bodies in a chilling spray of Holy Water … A cleansing, Anastasia imagined without a word. The vow had been made. The chill had made her nipples erect and she involuntarily shivered. She felt strange being completely naked before these strangers whose eyes seemed to dwell upon their exposed bodies, staring unapologetically at their sexual organs.

A bowl of water, soap, and a shaver were brought forward.

“Remove thy hair from thy sex before the eyes of THE ONE. Let him see his new BRIDES, in their fullness,” quaked the old Mother Superior.

“Praise THE ONE. AMEN.”

The compliant girls did as she ordered. Each took her turn to be shaved of any pubic hair that they may have. Most had none. Each was then given a translucent white surplice to wear. There were to be no shoes, no underwear, just a crude surplice that covered their front and back and was fastened with a thin string belt. The skimpy material was raw and rough against her delicate skin. Anastasia’s hair was covered in a white cowl that felt too tight around her face.

“In time, you will earn your right to wear the robe. In the meantime, you will wear your surplice and cowl and nothing else. You will utter no words, unless they are AMEN, in the praise of THE ONE. You are dismissed to the novice quarters, where the sisters will give you your duties.”

“Praise THE ONE. AMEN.”

The old Mother Superior turned to Sister Karina.

“I see shame. I see SIN in this room. I want this one …” she pointed to Anastasia, “I want her brought to the novice reflection room; and upon her judgment, she will be brought before to me.”

“Yes, Mother Superior.”

Anastasia was unsure what had happened. She felt weak at the knees. She wanted to go with the other, to do her duty. But the Mother Superior had said that there was ‘SIN’ in the room. What had she meant? Sister Karina stepped forward and took hold of Anastasia’s arm and pulled her aside.

“You are all dismissed,” she said addressing the others, “You will follow me,” she added looking directly into Anastasia’s eyes.

Anastasia quaked with fear.


Anastasia was scared. She shivered involuntarily despite the stale warm air but she did exactly as Sister Karina told her. They left the other novices behind and she followed the older cranky Sister into the dark corridors. They walked through several arched doorways and then descended downwards even further into the belly of the monastery. After transversing the lower labyrinth, they came to an antechamber.

Sister Karina indicated that they should enter the adjoining room that was separated from the antechamber by a large heavy door with an eye-level horizontal slot in it. Sister Karina had called it the novice contemplation room. This was an almost empty room with no windows or furnishings except for a prie-dieu (prayer bench) that was set in the center of the room facing a huge wooden cross with an almost life-size statue of painted twisted metal of her crucified Lord. This statue looked even more depraved in its depiction of the gore of his last moments.

Inside the chamber, its bare stone walls were damp with some kind of moisture that seemed to seep right through the walls and the temperature was unbearably warm. Sister Karina told Anastasia to remove her skimpy surplice. Anastasia was again shy to strip naked before the goading Sister … before the eyes that seem to stare at her sex without shame, but did as she was instructed.

“Kneel upon the prayer bench before your tortured Nazarene. Contemplate your sin and pray to THE ONE for his consideration?” said the old Sister flatly.

“Consideration?” asked Anastasia.

“No talking!” her voice lifted to a scratchy shout, “Remember your vow of silence. And yes… His consideration. THE ONE will scrutinize your sin. THE ONE will confront your sin. And if THE ONE sees fit, he will punish your sin.”

Anastasia wanted to ask why had she been singled out but thought better of it. She thought of her vow of silence. To fail before one has even begun would be humiliating for both her and her family. She must be strong. She knew the Order had its own eccentric ways, and who was she to question their well-established practices, no matter how strange? The nun watched wordlessly as the young girl undressed. The nun collected Anastasia’s surplice and string belt.

“I will return once the consideration is done. Purify yourself. THE ONE will be with you. He is watching you now as your kneel. He will decide your fate.”

And with that parting remark, the Sister turned on her heels and walked from the chamber. Anastasia heard the heavy door close behind Sister Karina and the metal slot was drawn shut. As the nun’s receding footsteps disappeared all that was left was the silence of the contemplation room… only a distant sound of rhythmical dripping broke the quiet.

Drip. Drop. Drip.



The detective looked up from the words in the diary. It was already midnight. She felt akin to the young novice who seemed at odds with this strange new environment and the questionable practices of the Order of The Brides of Christ. It seemed that there was something very improper about the behavior of these so-called religious zealots. Though they had done nothing too extreme, it just seemed that the life of service was parallel to life under incarceration. The monastery, as described by the young Anastasia, sounded more like a prison and her vows sounded more like a sentence. And despite the late hour, Whitehall kept reading, riveted to every word that the young girl had written.

The detective skipped forward briefly to a passage in the diary, where the young writer described the ‘Brides’ as being impregnated with the Seed of the Lust, that the babies were taken to almost full term, before being aborted in an unholy ritual. It was shocking. She thought about the infant bodies found at the scene of the fire. Surely not? It was too much to take in … Too inconceivable … Too evil. I must be a lie.


Drip. Drop. Drip.

She was alone, completely alone. Anastasia knelt as the good Sister had instructed and pressing her palms together looked up at the life-sized form of the twisted Christ, his maimed body punctured with nails driven into his ankles and wrists. Two large candles burned with a yellowish glow. A wick set in a bowl of heavily scented oil gave off a murky essence that began to fill the chamber.

The sickly scent had a slightly sulfuric tang was made her bilious at first then its phenomenal odor seemed to deepen the agony she felt for her crucified savior. How he must have suffered for their mortal sins. He was the Son of God, yet, he gave his life so that all of mankind may be freed from the burden of our lust. Her eyes filled with tears of sorrow as she began to cry.

After a while, Anastasia began to wonder when the good Sister would return. But nothing happened. The fragrance from the scented oils seemed to make her feel strange, not sleepy, but more apprehensive, and nervous. She felt a subtle sensation, barely strong enough to have been a tingle, in her palms, nipples, and in her perineum.

She shook her head. She was beginning to imagine things. In the eerie lighting, it appeared that Jesus was looking down upon her, directly looking at her; his tortured eyes glowing in the flickering illumination. A hallucination? Was she dreaming? To think that Jesus would look upon her in this way was heresy. She dared not to move. The dim light was playing tricks on her. The murky vapors were testing her strength and fortitude.

Drip. Drop. Drip.

The temperature in the stone room seemed to have increased. Hotter. Wetter. It felt uncomfortably warm. A column of sweat rained down her naked back and her knees began to ache from her body weight. She felt a little lightheaded in this unpleasant heat. Her bladder hummed a little, telling her that she needed to urinate soon. A sensation grew as she knelt on the prie-dieu. There was now a strong salty taste on her tongue. She looked up at the Lord Jesus and noticed for the first time, that he was without any garments.

She realized it was the first time she had looked upon a naked crucified Jesus. Why hadn’t she noticed this before? It seemed strange, but then again, it was more realistic, for it was the practice of the time, that victims were unclothed when crucified. It was only the orthodoxy of the church-ed that covered his manhood as a symbol of modesty. But as she looked up at Jesus, his genitals were certainly clearly visible, his manhood seemingly erect and pointing upwards towards the heavens. This was no vision of divinity. She felt ashamed and looked away.

Drip. Drop. Drip.

Anastasia felt feverish and somewhat shocked. Was she seeing things? The smokey heat was making her delusional. The vibrations felt stronger and stronger teasing her clitoris to an agitated state. The heat upon heat had made her entire body perspire and the accelerated light-headedness was making her twitch.

She wanted to sit, or to stand, or to lay down, but the good Sister had said explicitly that she was to kneel before her Lord and pray for his forgiveness. But this was not the Lord of chastity and piousness. She looked upon his phallus as it stood upright and prone. What was most uncomfortable was her own unchecked feelings of sensual arousal. Oh, Holy Lord forgive me, she thought. Her loins were on fire with the blasphemous thoughts that crossed her consciousness.

Drip. Dug. Drip.

“Look at me,” said the whispering voice of the Lord, “Look at me.”

Anastasia felt like vomiting. The smell of her own sexual arousal was so obvious. She felt ashamed. She pressed her sweaty hands tighter together. Praying hard as she could.


She looked up at the face of her savior. The metallic finish seemed to move like human flesh, shimmering as if wet with the glow of arousal. Looking at his face saved her focusing on his moving hips that gyrated, pushing his fleshy cock, so that it bobbed up and down as sacred fluids dripped from its weeping eye. Her arm brushed against her highly aroused nipples sending shudders down to her virgin cunt. She wanted it between her furrow. She wanted his spear inside her thrusting as it did into the air, thrusting up through her hymen. Taking her. Spoiling her. Making her soiled with its lustful thrusts…

“Touch yourself, lusty one,” said the voice of the Lord.

Stop. Stop. I don’t want this.

She screamed inside. She tried to resist but her eager little fingers conspired against her. They squeezed her hard little nipples, sending exquisite vibes straight down to her dripping cunt. Fingers quickly made their way across the flatness of her tummy and to the heat of her sex. Her rational thoughts had become weak and disassociated.

“Worship me lusty one. Masturbate. Masturbate. Masturbate …”

All she could hear was the chant of conjugation; drawn into the fabulous and forbidden. The call to join with the secret vice. Were the Brides of Christ called to consummate their marriage? Sinful? Wanton? Temple whores? Incestuous? Bisexual? Transsexual? Nymphomaniacs? Oh LUST! LUST! LUST!

Drip. Dug. Drip. Dug. Drip. Dug.

The prie-dieu seemed to shake violently for a moment and then was still. Rising from the base of the prie-dieu, a strange protrusion extending upwards hard and smooth. It pressed against Anastasia’s dripping pussy lips, its warm, flesh-like, bulbous head prized her delicate folds apart. Her mind screamed to know what it was and the answer came in a whisper “it was the phallus of Jesus”. She allowed herself to sink down upon it, welcoming its upward thrust as it seemed to rise up to meet her movements. Her eyes still focused on the living Jesus, still held upon the crucifix by the nails driven through his wrists and ankle. His cock throbbed with a heated lust, unnatural and unholy.

Duga. Duga. Dug. Duga. Duga. Dug.

The enchantment of the dripping drummed a strange beat. A pagan beat. A ritual beat. A chorus of demons seemed to stroke her imagination with thoughts and ideas that she would have previously considered aberrant! Now she quaked in the unholy rhetoric. The Whores of Christ must do god’s dirty work.

They must appease the demons. They must submit themselves. Lust in darkness, so that they may see the light! Unholy demons – FUCK ME BEFORE MY SAVIOR, SO THAT HE MAY SEE MY DEVOTION! Her bladder lost control as she urinated over the phallus, her golden rain baptizing its smooth-ribbed length as it finally took her virginity and slid deeper into her tight little cunt. She screamed out in pain and then the orgasmic wave takes her under.

Duga. Duga. Dug. Duga. Duga. Dug.

Everything went black.


Whitehall found herself breathing very hard. Despite the strength of her beliefs and the endless religious instruction of her youth, she could not help but be affected by the words that jumped off the page. The pedophilic rape depicted should have shocked and shamed her … But the book was seductive in its malignant intent. It tingled in her hands with echoes of the demonic vibrations that had set its protagonist down an evil route; into lusty darkness; eloquent in all that was taboo; into the carnal pleasures of a supernatural kind.

The incredulous story had made Whitehall uncomfortably wet between her legs. This was a feeling that she was not used to. She certainly had been horny before, but this was so powerful and inescapable in its temptation. Help. She thought briefly, but this pathetic attempt to stop the downward slide passed almost instantly in the heat of twisted passion. She knew it was sinful, but her hand had somehow found its way down the front of her loose sweatpants and her fingers nursed her excited cunt. The fabric of her sweatpants had changed color, saturated in stains from her bodily fluids. Her hand too, was completely drenched in her sexual juices. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Sweat trickled down her neck. It was unbearably hot — like a sauna.

She could hear the enchanting pagan beat. Its relentlessness pounded against the inside of her chest cavity. She groaned out loud as she felt the unholy phallus thrust upwards between the young girl’s cunt, tearing it apart like a knife through butter. She could smell the aphrodisiacal mixture of her own sexual secretions and the flow of urine that ran down the inside of her legs. What was happening here?

She was not sure. She wanted to reject it for its intrinsic evilness but also embraced it for exactly the same reason. She wanted to witness the young virgin be offered to the demon; to see it consume her in its necromancy of perverted wickedness. The power of the dark occult vision filled her senses. Yes. Yes. Yes. A dark ritual coming to its climax. A savage sacrifice to the devil. Without warning, she bucked uncontrollably against her fingers in the throws of an unexpected orgasm.


The next thing that Anastasia remembered was the sharp grating sound of metal-on-metal as the narrow slot was opened. There was a moment of pause and then she heard the heavy door open. It was the grim face of Sister Karina. She did not look happy.

“Wake up. Wake up,” she said.

Sister Karina grabbed young Anastasia by her long black hair and lifted her to her feet. Anastasia tried not to scream despite the acuteness of the pain.

“Disgusting bitch! Look at you. Filthy deviant. I know you were not worthy. I could smell it on you. The Devil’s touched you. Straight to the Mother Superior. She’ll know what to do with you.”

Anastasia was unclear of her fate. Being locked up in a room with only artificial light had completely disoriented her. Was it a nightmare or a daymare? She only got a second to look around the novice contemplation chamber before being hurried from the room. All seemed so innocent now. No naked Jesus. No phalluses. No bleeding from a spoilt cunt. Just the stench of her own piss.

In the antechamber, Sister Karina placed a thick leather collar around Anastasia’s delicate little neck in the front of which was a thick metal ring. She attached a dog-like chain to it and used it to pull Anastasia behind her as she lead them back into the lower labyrinth. Once again, she was brought along a darkened twisted path until they came to a gated door to another light-less room. It was certainly larger than the novice contemplation chamber. Inside the chamber, there was a narrow metal bed frame on top of which was a filth old mattress without any bed sheets. In the corner of the room was a metal bowl.

“The Mother Superior will come shortly,” growled Sister Karina.

Sister Karina held her at the center of the room so that they both faced the open doorway. Still naked, tired, and disoriented, Anastasia stood uncomfortably on one leg and then the next. She felt the fatigue in her bones, in her joints, in every sinew of muscle. The stuffy old chamber was not as warm as the previous, but once again she felt the mild sensation of vibrations that centered on her crutch area. The vibrations seemed to be getting stronger with every passing moment.

The gated door opened and the Mother Superior entered. She looked ancient and infirm. Another Sister, closer to Anastasia’s age, helped the old Mother Superior to walk awkwardly into the chamber. The old woman’s cowled face was drawn in and dry. Anastasia noticed the deep lines on her face. This was the face of suffering. Obviously leading the Order of the Brides of Christ had taken its toll on her. Her pain and heavy responsibility was palpable. Anastasia felt the vibrations getting even stronger; as if the source was radiating from the old krone, herself.

“Is she polluted, Mother Superior?” demanded Sister Karina.

She pulled the leash hard.

“Pure evil. I feel the touch of the devil’s lust in this one.”

The Mother Superior’s voice was raspy and harsh. Her black-in-black irises studied the naked girl.

“Bring her closer to me.”

Sister Karina pulled the dog chain so that it forced Anastasia to her knees before the old hag, who now looked down on her. The vibrations intensified the closer she came. Anastasia’s pussy was open, lubricated, and began to leak with sexual juices. She tried to not think about how stimulated she felt as she knelt before her holy confessor.

“LUST. I feel the LUST. She makes me feel LUST,” crocked the old Mother Superior.

Saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth and spittle flew as she spoke in her raspy inflection. They were strange words of utterance from such a revered figure of authority. Anastania’s cunt was shamelessly dripping.


“She sows the seeds of LUST!” screamed Sister Karina.



Anastasia watched speechlessly as the young nun removed Mother Superior’s rope belt from around her drab black habit. Holding it in her hands, Anastasia noticed the fine row of leather knots positioned at intermittent intervals. The young nun passed it to the Mother Superior and then removed her own clothing.

“The Antichrist! The Antichrist!”

“Praise the Devil’s whore!” echoed the nuns.

“The Antichrist is in my loins. He wants a sacrifice! I feel the DEVIL’S LUST!”

The old krone was quaking on the spot.

“Shall I beat her Mother Superior? Beat the demonic slut for tempting you!” asked the young nun, who looked all too eager to administer the required punishment.

“YES! YES! For the love of God, beat the vile slut! She is the temptress. The evil harlot! As I am your confessor, WITCH WHORE. We must do God’s dirty work! Sin does fester in this one. She’s polluting my soul. She calls out to the Antichrist.”

“SLUT! WHORE! SHE’S POISONING US ALL WITH THE DEVIL’S LUST!” scorned Sister Karina lifting the hem of her habit and fingering her slimy wet slit and inflamed clitoris that stood out like a bullet.

“Holy Jesus, the Patron Saint of Flaccidity, save us from the blasphemous BEAST!” cried the young nun.

The old nag’s eyes were sinking backwards into her head with only the whites of her eyes visible. Her head looked heavy and lulled backward and then from side to side erratically.

Sister Karina and the young naked nun were no longer looking toward their leader but were focused on Anastasia. They both grabbed her and dragged her forward toward the stripped mattress. Anastasia was far too shocked to react in any effective way. Her body felt limp and numb. She gargled and spittle poured from her open mouth. Before she knew it the two nuns fastened her wrists above her head to a heavy chain that hung from the ceiling directly over the center of the bed, and then spreading her legs wide, they fastened her ankles to either side of the bed frame so that she hung with her legs wide and her cunt exposed.

Sister Karina also removed her habit and knelt in front of Anastasia’s sprayed thighs, pressing her hot wet kips against her sex as she kissed and licked fanatically at her young ripe cunt.

“She tastes of the devil’s seed!” cried Sister Karina, “Beat her Sister Gwen. Beat the demons from her!”

The young nun groaned unabated as she masturbated herself upon one of the phallic posts that formed the four corners of the bed frame. She did as instructed and used Mother Superior’s belt savagely like a whip as she slid up and down on the cock-like protrusion.

Anastasia felt the knotted leather throng come down sharply across her bare back and then against her buttocks. The pain was incredible. It shot like white lightening up her back and into her brain. Sister Gwen was preparing to whip her again. She tried to twist away from Sister Gwen’s reach, but it was hopeless. When the shock of the initial pain subsided, the young nun laughed out loud and hit her again. And again. And again.

Each of the subsequent blows left Anastasia gasping for air. She desperately wanted to cry out against the strange agony. It was a bizarre cocktail punctuated by the sharp pain of the whip mixed with the strong sensual vibrations that coupled with Sister Karina’s tongue that was relentless in its exquisite pleasuring of her erect clitoris and inner labia. Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure. Anastasia panted desperately but never cried out … She would not give them the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt … Or how good it felt. With each successive laceration, she prayed harder and harder for forgiveness and salvation.

“Enough! Both of you!” grunted the sick-looking Mother Superior.

By this time, Anastasia’s eyes were blurred with tears. She tried to focus in the direction of the voice. She saw the two nuns climbing from the bed and going to the assistance of the elderly and infirm Mother Superior.

“Oh unholy of blessings … The Antichrist is here! The Antichrist is here!” she rambled like a completely mad woman.

Anastasia watched as the two nuns helped her with the removal of her heavy black habit, leaving her only in her wimple. Around her neck, she wore a strange medallion that had an inverted five-pointed star with a goat’s head at its center. She recognized it as the Goat of Mendes. Beneath her habit, it seemed that the Mother Superior wore no undergarments, but that was not what caught Anastasia’s attention. Below her wrinkled old breasts, saucer-sized aureolas, and the flabby loose skin of her aged torso, her legs were incredibly hairy. The hair looked more like the fur of a wild creature and below her knees, the Mother Superior’s legs folded back in an unnatural configuration with cloven hoofs instead of feet.

The two nuns seemed neither surprised nor concerned by any of this monstrous abnormality. In fact, they both fell to their knees in adoration before their malformed gargoyle who even grunted like a wild beast instead of an inspirational religious dignitary.

“Hail the Antichrist! The Devil will reign! ” chanted the two horny nuns, as they both knelt and furiously masturbated before the grotesque creature.

“Show me the sinner! Show me, MY BRIDE,” croaked the disgusting creature.

It reached forward and parted the two nuns. Then on its strange goat feet, it advanced towards where Anastasia hung helplessly. She saw the nuns getting to their feet to aid their repellent monstrosity of a religious leader as she walked like a Capra balancing on its hind legs. Despite her fear, Anastasia’s cunt conspired against her as it seemed to pour with the forceful vibrations that now brought her to the brink of reluctant orgasmic delight. She shuddered as she came for the first time, but never recovered long enough before a new wave of pleasure began to break inside of her.

It was at that point that Anastasia saw the creature’s enormous phallus. Unsheathed from its hairy root, the creature’s pizzle was bright purple-red in color, it curved upwards almost a foot in length and as thick as Anastasia’s wrist. Its angry bulbous head bobbed up and down as the deformed creature stepped forward. Long strings of viscus fluids flowed and hung in beaded threads below its open weeping eye.

Anastasia thrashed against her restraints, more vigorously than before, trying to get away from the approaching monster. She orgasmed again. She was completely breathless. She wanted to scream her lungs out, to cry out to Jesus, her Savior, for restitution; but no sound was forthcoming; only her panting breath left her parted lips.

Now the two evil nuns were on their feet, ready to follow their BEAST OF LUST as she closed in on Anastasia. Both Sister Gwen and Sister Karina had also been hideously transformed; not as dramatically as their elder, but both sported hermaphroditic cocks that stood hard and upright from where their female genitalia should have been.

Anastasia was horrified at what she saw, but could not deny the way her body felt. They were almost diametrically opposed. Her vagina felt like so itchy to be filled with the disguising animal’s filthy cock. Every nerve in her body cried out for it to be inside her, yet her mind could not begin to comprehend this turgid wantonness … This obscene animalistic desire … This blind lustfulness …

“Behold Great Demon Mistress! Your sacrificial bride awaits your wicked consummation!” cried the demonic Sister Karina, stroking her curved banana-shaped penis.


Whitehall sat up against the low couch. Cold sweat licked her exposed breasts and pert nipples. The clock said it was one in the morning.

All that filled her mind was the lust that she felt. Her apartment stunk strongly of her solo sexual activities. She now sat completely naked, her cunt throbbing painfully from the copious attention that it had received from her eager fingers. She had found the wicked words of young Anastasia so compelling that she could not stop reading. And in reading the blasphemous words, she had found herself compelled to masturbate her throbbing clitoris and flooded cunt, over and over, cumming to increasingly more powerful orgasms with each and every subsequent peak.

She pulled the crucifix from around her neck and pressed it against her clitoris – soaking it in her cunt juices. Oh, yer! Fuck yer, she thought, willing the dark evil one to take Anastasia; willing the sexual demons to do their worth; willing the dark evil one to take her! Dare she say it? Dare she go against all that she held holy and Christian? Yes! Yes! Yes!

“CHRIST BE FUCKED! Hail the Antichrist! The Devil will reign!”

Her own blasphemy sent her over the edge again …

“Aargghhhhhhhhhhhh …”

She screamed reaching another climax. She was totally addicted. Nothing could tear her away from this story. She saw it all in exquisite detail as if she was there as if she was Anastasia herself, affronted by this evil, but finding it so compelling that she would have given herself to it, bowing down before it, appeasing it in every sordid way she could imagine possible.


The demonic nuns rubbed their greedy cocks as they dripped with sexual juices. The old Mother Superior was not recognizable as anything remotely human as she had now transformed almost completely into the demon of demons. She was undoubtedly the embodiment of the Antichrist. Her face, no longer concealed behind the cowl, resembled the ugly face of the beast with a goat-like snout and curled horns. Her breasts no longer sagged like wrinkled old sacks, but stood firm and proud, made of milky white flesh and crowned with phallic nipples. Beneath the waistline, Anastasia stared at her huge veined cock that pointed upwards towards her virgin cunt; below which the creature’s heavy balls were huge latent with its demonic seed.

“Hail the Antichrist! The Devil will reign! ” chanted the two horny nuns.

The strange creature held Anastasia’s hips and pressed the tip of its engorged phallus between the delicate folds of her virgin cunt. She screamed inside for salvation, but her lips would offer no sound.

Her cunt was dipping. Her juices flowed down, over the thick bulbous head and ran down its viewed shaft, lubricating the length as it began to enter her.

“Colere diabolum et daemones sexus; Baphomet cultum, et pulchritudo in conspectu ejus, cantavit; cultus, malum, mortem, cultus, et puer Antichristo servient ei phallus,” chanted the nuns.


It was morning. The early light passed over the sleeping detective’s eyes. She had passed out, naked with the diary still clutched in her hand. Whitehall awoke abruptly. The dream. The fire. The girl. The demon. Something told her that she must return to the monastery. That the answer to her question would be there.

She snapped the perverted diary shut. She fumbled around to find her clothing and almost in a dreamlike state, headed out the door. From her apartment, she had called Fisher and he met her downstairs some twenty minutes later. She would have gone alone, but thought it wiser to have the hapless constable at her side; for the time being at least.

“Where too?”

“Back to the ruined monastery,” replied Whitehall. He looked unsure. “What are you waiting for?”

“Sorry. Just a little slow on the uptake today.”

Fisher took the wheel of the unmarked police car. Whitehall climbed into the rear seat. He looked around and she waved him back to put his attention to the road.

“Just get us there ASAP.”

‘Right,” he replied as the car lurched forward.

She pulled the diary from her jacket pocket and turned back to the last page that she had read. She usually hated reading, to doing anything in cars, as it made her bilious, but this was different and she felt compelled to finish the diary before they arrive back at the monastery.

She had to know the fate of the story’s author. Had she died in the fire? Or had she survived? Something in the back of her mind told her that there was a survivor and that she had been sent to find her. She did not comprehend this purpose, she just saw it in her awakening dream.


Heat upon heat. Her body was on fire. Sweat ran from every pore. She gasped at the hot spicy air. Her lips mouthed the word ‘please’ – its double meaning lost in the moment.

There would be no quarter as the beast mounted her from behind. Its claw-like hands held her with an iron-like grip and its talons pierced her flesh; one around her shapely waistline; the other mauling her tiny coned breasts. Its massive cock rubbed back and forth between her splayed thighs. Her tiny engorged clitoris tingled with every stroke the demon made, as it ribbed length see-sawed back and forth in preparation for the final insertion.

“Colere diabolum et daemones sexus; Baphomet cultum, et pulchritudo in conspectu ejus, cantavit; cultus, malum, mortem, cultus, et puer Antichristo servient ei phallus,” continued the masturbating cock nuns.

Then it started. She was fuck meat. Anastasia felt as if she was being split in two. The size of the demonic stallion was beyond human and would have caused distress to the most amorous of whores. But the pain was short-lived as the demon’s juices not only lubricated but caused Anastasia’s cunt to transform enough to be compatible with this evil coupling. Her cunt opened like a flower, accepting inch after inch of the Baphometic phallus up into her cervix. Her stomach visibly bulged as the monster cock fucked upwards inside of her, churning her into spasms of wicked pleasure as it erupted inside of her filling her guts with a gallon of demonic seed.

Her mind had lost all sense of reality and the only thought that filled her mind was that of lust, evil lust, demon lust. The world was on fire. The smell of burning flesh was overwhelming. The pain of the heat was unbearable. Everything was alight with the flames of hell as the creature’s reached its climax.


The phone rang. It was Constable Fisher.


“What is it?” answer Detective Whitehall, her annoyance audible.

“You ain’t gonna believe this, but they found a survivor from the monastery fire. Naked she was…. Wondering about the moors … Almost died of exposure … Nothing to identify her. She’s in the ICU. Guess you want to interview her right? Hear what she has to say. Maybe there’s a clue to this horrid mystery after all?”

The detective did not answer. She dropped the phone and quickly grabbed her bag, tucking the malignant diary deep inside. It was only about ten-minute walk to the downtown hospital from her apartment.

Arriving at the hospital, Whitehall flashed her detective badge at the duty nurse at the ICU and asked about the survivor from the monastery fire. Whitehall learned that the woman was in fact a young girl, no older than twelve. She had no form of identification and was catatonic. Though she had not been harmed by the fire; she was very weak and had suffered from exposure as well as being seriously traumatized. Whitehall noted that the duty nurse had said that she had required sedation. She would probably be in no position to answer any questions … Not right away. Still, Whitehall wanted to see the girl for herself. Could she be the protagonist? Did the diary belong to her? Could this be Anastasia? It was seriously a long shot.

Whitehall entered the sterility of the hospital’s ICU. There was only one patient in the long narrow ward and for that moment all the staff seemed otherwise occupied (outside the large toughened glass windows that looked inwards upon the patients. The sound of the mechanics of the medical systems purred and lights blinkered on and off. She saw the pale thin figure laying on the ICU gurney. She looked so fragile, so weak and so diminished. The detective looked at the young girl’s angelic face. She was as the Constable described, no older than twelve years. She looked peaceful and any sense of trauma was masked in her comatose state.

Whitehall could not help but remember passages from the wayward diary …

“Hail the Antichrist! The Devil will reign!”…

“Show me the sinner! Show me, MY BRIDE” …

“She tastes of the devil’s seed!”…

“Worship me lusty one”…

“Colere diabolum et daemones sexus”…

She felt an unexplainable excitement that was totally inappropriate for the situation. Her fingers brushed the idol against the back of the girl’s wrist. She felt a mild vibration that seemed to focus on her perineum. It was the same sensation she had felt holding the diary earlier. Her cunt became wetter and wetter.

Suddenly without warning, the girl grabbed the detective’s wrist. Her eyes popped wide open. Her mouth was also agape as if to breathe after being almost drowned. She held the detective firmly. This was not the hold of a twelve-year-old girl.

This was supernatural.

Her eyes were like two pools of blackness … The detective looked into them … Whitehall completely froze. She was speechless. She could not move. It was as if she was seeing through another’s eye … She heard the pagan drum beat. She saw the phallic monsters that dwelled in the burned-out monastery. See clearly saw androgynous sex demons torridly abusing and impregnating the hapless novices. Helplessness. Hopelessness. She wanted to recoil, but could not. Her other horrific scenes unfold. Occult images. Evil sex. Dark erotica. She saw the young being used as human sacrifices. Fetuses are being speared and eaten alive. She wanted to scream as she witnessed, no, experienced hell. And then, from the fire, she saw the rising of the antichrist …

… And then the girl’s eyes closed again.




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