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, Cohesion, Corruption, Lolita, NC, Rape, Bondage, Sadism, WS, Drug use, MC, Black Magic, Devil Worship, Demons, and Evil themes.

AUTHORS NOTES: Thanks to Derek for his input – sorry it’s probably not as extreme as you like, but I hoped to meet you halfway.

CREATED: 15.10.2015 / REVISITED: 19.08.2023

Magus 1


At the fingertips of the Magus are the symbols of the four tarot suits: the wand indicates the fire signs (Lust, Anger, and Passion); the cup indicates the water signs (Urine, Blood, and Semen); the sword, the air signs (Respiration, Burping, Farting); and the pentacles, the earth signs (Flesh, Force, and Malleability). The four tarot suits signify the elements of social life; the wands indicate power; the cup intoxicants (often paired with sexual activity); the sword indicates phallus; and the pentacle indicates money.

It’s due to this mastery over the elements figuratively and literally, that endows the Magus with irresistible power. This nature also possesses the ”magic of youth” demonstrating this in both vigor of pursuit and activity. The Magus is prone to pedophiliac impulses, seeking to unite his or her own psychic youth with a child exhibiting comparable physical youth. No matter the chronological age, the Magus sees the endless flow of sexual energy signified by the nimbus above and the ‘serpent eating his own tail’ around the waist of the Magus.


It is August 1895. Sister Marie Claire escaped an abusive childhood to dedicate her life to the service of the Lord, and in doing so, became a Sister in the Order of the Righteous God. In the tenth year of her service, Sister Marie is seconded by the new Reverend Mother Teresa to assist the strange and misanthropic Father Boyle. Father Boyle, who recently returned from the Dark Continent, has radical views on how the Order needed to convert the lost primitive souls. He enlists Sister Marie in his agenda and influences her against her previously held beliefs, challenging her assumptions about good and evil. Is Father a force for good or a force for evil? What is the new Reverend Mother’s role in this strange situation? Will Sister Marie see through the diaphanous veil or be seduced by the Father’s mesmerist narrative? Is the Father in fact a savoir or heretic, a saint or demon, a man or a magus?


The old chapel bells of the Convent of the Righteous God tolled loudly as they always did to call the faithful to evening prayer. It was the fifth day of August, in the year of our Lord, 1895, and the last summer brought a stale lethargy to the remnants of the day.

Not everyone could attend the vigil mass that evening. Sister Marie Claire felt almost completely drained and debilitated. She faked illness to have a moment to herself.

She looked at the face that stared blankly at her in the reflection of her full-length dressing mirror. She was the only Sister in the convent to have such a piece of furniture in her private chambers, as mirrors were considered by most as a sign of vanity – something frowned upon in the Righteous Order. Sister Marie, like all the other ordained Sisters of the Convent of the Righteous God, were to have forsaken all worldly excesses, all forms of material comfort, all personal possession, and indulgences of the flesh.

She scowled at her reflection. She sometimes reminded herself of an over-exposed black-and-white photograph. That oval white face was just too white from the lack of sun and outdoor activity; that oily black hair fell limply down over her nakedness making her pallid complexion even more obvious. Twenty years old now, she remembered how, as a young girl, she had hated being so dowdy, unremarkable, ordinary. Back then, she had wished for beauty. She was still too thin and almost shapeless, breastless, hairless, and sexless.

She loathed the events that had taken her youth and her innocence. For a moment she allowed herself to remember her shocking childhood that she ran away to escape – that had shaped who she had become, the choices she had made, and how she came to hide herself away for the past ten years in the insular and isolated Convent of the Righteous God. Yes, at least there was solace in her faith, in her love of the Divine One. The hard work, worship, and sacrifice brought peace and tranquility, but there were always moments when she felt a deep hatred, a repentant morbid anger for the poison that ran through her sexually, blackening it, marring it with ordure.

As a young ten-year-old child she hated them all; her predator stepfather, Damien Claire; her incestuous mother, Catherine Claire; and her nine-year-old sister, Emma May Claire. What was more, she had hated herself, her inability to fight back against these evil influences, from the forces that had made her culpable. Had she been a victim or turned perpetrator? In either regard, she was filth, scum, and unworthy of the love of the Lord.

Her stepfather, whom they all referred to as Master, was a sexual predator, who pretended to be righteous whilst worshiping darkness. She was sure that he saw the opportunity to take full advantage of their vulnerable situation. Prone to quoting scriptures, he was a sadist who enjoyed beating the fear of God into his two stepdaughters in the most humiliating and degrading manner – forcing them to pray out loud in chorus to his instruction as they both knelt naked and painfully on the hard wooden floor, arms extended in a mock crucifixion.

Even after all these years, she could hear his wicked rhetoric.

“Miscreants, repeat after me. Blessed are those who fear the Lord … “ grunted her evil stepfather.

“Blessed are those who fear the Lord,” repeated the girls.

Her vulnerable young sister Emma was close to sobbing.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one …” he droned slowly tapping his fingers.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.”

Her stepfather pressed the end of the wooden ruler against the underside of her left arm. She lifted her arm, knowing that if she allowed her arms to drop before the end of her scripture lesson, she would feel the sting of these implements upon her bare backside.

“To rescue you from the ways of evil — from the ones that say perverse things …” he continued.

“To rescue you from the ways of evil — from the ones that say perverse things …” the girls chimed.

They felt exposed. Their arms felt like lead.

“From those who abandon the right paths to walk in ways of darkness …” her stepfather now tapped the ruler impatiently against his palm, almost willing the girls to fail.

“From those who abandon the right paths to walk in ways of darkness …”

“From who enjoy doing evil and celebrate perversion …”

“From who enjoy doing evil and celebrate perversion …” they faithfully repeated.

Emma’s little voice at the point of breaking.

“Whose paths are crooked, and whose ways are devious.”

“Whose paths are crooked, and whose ways are devious.”

“Devious yes! Profane yes! Perverted yes!” spat Damien.

Her mother had become as much a monster as the one they called Master. She obviously harbored her own demons that seemed to be inspissated by her relationship with their sadistic stepfather. With their birth father long dead, she seemed to have allowed her forbidden desires to overshadow any nurturing or motherly instincts.

Very quickly scripture and punishment were preceded by sexual molestation. Her mother stood half-naked before her own daughters as they knelt to receive their nightly punishment. She chanted obscenities whilst pressing a crucifix between the dripping labia of her freshly shaved vagina.

“Give thanks to the Lord God! Kneel and kiss Jesus, you fuckers … Give thanks to the Lord!” she would say, as she pulled Marie’s reluctant face hard against her heated cunt, “Lick me there! FUCK. Arrghh … LICK JESUS! That’s it lick JESUS! Arghhhhhhh … YES! My hairless CUNT, lick JESUS in my hairless CUNT. ”

“Oh, daemones incesti … oh daemones incesti … accipe puerum sacrificium …” (oh demons of incest, receive our child sacrifice) chanted her stepfather, a seasoned Satanist, sadist, and pedophile. He would rub his pre-cum wet cock upon their faces.

“In Nomine Dei Nostri Satanas, Luciferi Excelsi …” (In the name of our God, Satan, Lucifer of the Most High).

Mother and stepfather would then take turns using each of the girls to satisfy their unnatural sexual needs. Both girls would be forced to perform oral sex on each other for the entertainment of the adults; masturbating themselves and each other with religious objects. Damien forced the girls to drink their own urine in a mock communion. Every night he dreamed up sexually perverse things for them to do. And as this insanity continued it seemed that she became part of their trilogy — a willing participant in the increasing brutality of their incestuous acts.

Her eagerness to appease her stepfather’s cock became obvious – sucking him until he came in her ten-year-old mouth. There was once she felt their sisterly kinship against these evil adults, but soon that changed too. This only added to Emma May’s misery, as she became their collective sex toy to use and abuse. Soon she won the confidence and the approval of her step-father and mother by instigating her own perverted and sadistic acts upon poor Emma May – she openly prayed to the devil in the hope of more powerful orgasms.

Eventually, about two months after it had all begun, Emma May died suddenly. There was no explanation from either her stepfather or mother. Marie felt deeply ashamed of all that she had done. Her acts had, in one way or another contributed to her baby sister’s death. She was a murderer. The guilt built and built and finally, she decided to escape. Getting as far away as possible from her family home to find some kind of absolution. She became a runaway and ended up being taken in by the Sisters of the convent as an acolyte. She never mentioned her guilt or her sister’s death – the bruises and cuts told them what they wanted to know and she did not say otherwise.

She had over the course of the next ten years in the convent found many ways to distract herself from her self-hatred and the aggressiveness that filled her chest that at times almost prevented her from breathing – that pain that ran throughout her body. She felt the presence of evil, waiting for her moment of weakness, willing her to touch herself in forbidden places as she recalled her perversions. It was those times she sought the Savior – she often reflected upon his hideous twisted body, punctured and broken skin, a crown of thorns, the thirty-nine lashes of the whip, the bloody wounds of the blood knots, the heavy wooden cross, the nails driven into his wrists and ankles. Yes. She felt her suffering was nothing in comparison to that of her Lord.


The Reverend Mother Teresa was a solemn and reclusive soul. A recently new appointment to the Order of the Righteous God, it was obvious that time had been kind to her. At thirty-two, the new Reverend Mother’s face seemed to have an undeniable radiance about it, framed angelically by her pure white cowl. She was as beautiful as Sister Marie had wished she had been as a child, but sadly never was.

She had summoned Sister Marie to assist Father Boyle, who recently returned from missionary work. Sister Marie had been told that he had served the Righteous Order in the propagation of Christianity to some of the most remote and isolated parts of the Dark Continent of Africa. It sounded mystical – even saintly to Sister Marie and she could not wait to meet with the enigmatic Father for the first time.

“Sister Marie,” announced her new Reverend Mother.

“Yes, Reverend Mother?” answered Sister Marie in awe of her attractiveness.

“Father Boyle’s work is important to us all here. He serves the Righteous God in devoted ways that you could not imagine. He had overcome many obstacles, the least of which is ignorance of faith.”

The Reverend Mother’s eye moved in the direction of the two eleven-year-old acolytes that had been assigned to Sister Marie as their spiritual guide in their convent training. The Reverend Mother leaned close to Sister Marie’s ears, as to keep the conversation between them.

“Very important work Sister Marie. Some may not understand this work. They may misjudge us. Whatever you see; whatever is asked of you; must be kept between us … the Father, you, and myself. Do you understand Sister?”

The Reverend Mother placed her delicate white fingers over Sister Marie’s hand in a gesture of sincerity. It felt strange. A vision of her incestuous mother revisited her, pressing her hand against her baby sister’s vagina, instructing her in the art of taboo pleasures. As quickly as the sensation appeared, she blinked it back and moved her hand away.

“Oh … Ah … Oh course Reverend Mother,” she stammered in her effect to assure her new superior of her candidness.

“Well then, run along now. Father Boyle is in the West Wing.”


“Sister Marie?” inquired Father Boyle upon her arrival at the upper floor of the West Wing of the Convent that had been set aside for the Father’s important work.

“Yes, I am Sister Marie. You must be Father Boyle?” she replied not expecting Father Boyle to be in his thirties.

Somehow, from all the oral history, she had assumed that he would be much older. The handsome Father Boyle stood a head height taller than Sister Marie and was somewhat easy on the eyes.

“The Reverend Mother speaks highly of you and the quality of your work.”

“I am here to do the work of the Righteous God.”

“As am I Sister.”

The Father gestured for Sister Marie to enter and take a seat in the outer office of his rooms. The room was still filled with packing boxes, some open, others not.

“Before we begin Sister, I wanted to have a few words with you, as we will be working together for the duration of my work here at the Convent of the Righteous God.”

“Of Course Father. My duty is to serve and assist you in all and any capacity that you see fit.”

“I am glad to know that you are such. Your work here will be … somewhat of a departure from the usual. You may be confronted with things that seem contrary to our traditional Christian beliefs. Things that others may even view as sacrilegious or blasphemous.”

“How do you mean Father?”

“Well, it is a long story and one that I will share with you as we move forward. Suffice it to say, that I just wanted to prepare you, for events and materials that you encounter in our studies that on the surface may seem evil, covert, and even demonic. My work in the Dark Continent has taken me to strange places and involved me in even stranger circumstances. They have required an open and accepting mind, rather than one that is closed by strict doctrine – I have seen things, Sister Marie. In my travels, I have encountered many primitives that worship with black magic, animism, spiritism, totemism, and even offer human sacrifice.”

Father Boyle retrieved a heavily carved wooden statue of a naked woman with a snake emerging from her open vagina.

“For example, the worship of the serpent. Both sacred and terrible. With black magic, this carnivorous god emerges from within. The serpent is her phallus — she is transformed into the evil hermaphrodite goddess, the god of evil.”

“Hideous Father. And they … worship these evil gods?”

“Yes, they certainly do Sister Marie, and much, much more. I have experienced things, hideous things, and evil things!”

“Father Boyle. The Righteous God moves in mysterious ways.”

“He certainly does Sister. He certainly does. You would be well to remember that the serpent eats its own tail.”

“Sorry, Father I do not understand?”

“You will in time. Now, as you can see, everything is still in disarray and there is much to do in the unpacking and organization. I need to know that you will be strong and forthright – and most of all trust me, Sister. Trust in the enlightenment that I will share with you as we work closely together.”

“It will be a privilege, Father.”



Shortly after her initial meeting with Father Boyle, the Sister got a message from their Reverend Mother Teresa that the good Father had been called away urgently, and that she could help by settling his things for the continuation of his great work upon his imminent return.

“Sister Marie, is there anything we can do to help you?” Asked one of the young female acolytes that both carried the additional candelabras that Sister Marie had requested earlier.

Kirsten and Anita had come to the convent only a month earlier, brought by their families to serve in the convent, as was the tradition of the times. They were both very sweet, young, and naïve. Their petite bodies, perfect skin, and vulnerability stirred unwelcome thoughts in Sister Marie’s mind. They were predatory thoughts of her sister, Emma May; riding her face, pissing into her mouth, and cumming over and over whilst praying out loud to the devil. Yes, she acknowledged that she had been tainted by her unfortunate past – by the terror of her own childhood, how she had participated night after night in the molestation, humiliation, and physical abuse.

“No Kirsten. I must attend to these things alone. I would like you both to return to your scullery duties until such time that I am done with Father Boyle’s requirements.”

“Yes, Sister.”

They both chimed and turned in the direction of the convent scullery.

It was now late in the afternoon and she used the additional candelabras to bring in to brighten the darkened rooms as she worked on the process of unpacking. The Reverend Mother’s words of guarding against ignorance reverberated in her head. She understood that the good Father had entrusted her with his works and that she and she alone should handle his confidential things.

Father Boyle’s new office was a large lofty rectangular room with a huge wooden desk that was positioned under the large bay window. The place smelt of sandalwood, old parchments, and the mildew from the damp rugged carpets that covered the floor. Even with the additional candelabras, there was still insufficient illumination. Sister Marie worked in the half-light as she staked the three of the walls, which were adorned with bookshelves, filling them with the collection of periodicals, reference books, maps, and various artifacts that Father Boyle had brought back from his travels around the world.

Sister Marie traced her fingers along the ribbed spines of the strange old leather-bound publications that she had so dutifully staked into place. She was used to the many religious texts and illuminated manuscripts but was completely unaware of the titles kept by the Father. Titles like the De Praestigiis Daemonum, Pneumatologia occulta et vera, Les Secrets merveilleux de la magie naturelle du petit Albert.

There was all manner of publications in a number of unfamiliar languages – all of them seemed themed around dark, occult, satanic, and demonic theologies. Another publication Le Dragon Rouge caught her eye as it had an embossed ouroboros motif on its leather-clad cover of a circular coiled serpent eating its own tall. It reminded Sister Marie of the words of the Father about it, it seemed to her to be something to do with the circle of life, birth, death, and reincarnation.

There was one particularly old manuscript entitled the Codex Gigas that Sister Marie happened upon. It weighed over one-hundred-and-sixty pounds and smelt of things dead and burnt. Maybe it was because it had been made from the skin of one-hundred-and-sixty donkeys to form its contents; maybe it was something more sinister, she was not sure.

She had to eventually call upon the two of the other sisters to help retrieve it from its packing. She opened the wooden folder cover of the heavy volume. It was well preserved and had all its pages intact. The entire text was in Latin – a language, in a Sister of the Order of the Righteous God, was well versed in; it’s brilliantly illuminated medieval manuscript from the thirteenth century – with juxtaposed images of extreme good and extreme evil and was famed as the ‘Devil’s Bible’.

Then there were the even stranger artifacts that she had carefully unwrapped and arranged as the Father had instructed prior to our departure. There were statues, idols, and tokens that she could only describe as sexually obscene, grotesquely phallic, and disgustingly indecent. She seemed to osculate between curiosity and distaste. She felt an unexplained tingling in her fingertips as she handled these objects, touching their profanity made her involuntarily lubricate.

Sister Marie thought to herself that she must, on all counts, reserve her judgment over such matter of religious significance, as requested by the good Father – after all these were intended for the important work of Father Boyle and for research purposes that had been sanctioned by the Order of the Righteous God. The new Reverend Mother had expressly voiced her complete and utter support. Who was she to question the motivations or purposes of such things?

She felt a sense of pride of purpose assisting this great man, to unlock, uncover and demystify these legends, myths, and vices of these primitive and heathen cultures – how else to convert these wild people to the civilized beliefs and customs of the Order if he did not understand the origins of their bizarre ways? She had heard the Father say something along the lines ‘We must experience the darkness, to lead them into the light.’ Yes, he knew what he was doing.

Having that clear in her mind, there would be others that would not understand. They might be critical in the Convent of such things. Their ignorance would match that of the primitives that the good Father Boyle seeks to convert. She felt protectiveness towards him – the Handsome Father. She knew she would need to keep these items out of sight, so she arranged them in a separate antechamber to the main office – under lock and key.


It had been a few days since the disappearance of Father Boyle. Sister Marie had completed the settlement of the Father’s research materials when two new crates arrived from overseas. The Sister had them moved to the Father’s rooms and had left specific instructions for them to remain unopened so that she could deal with them personally.

Opening the first package she discovered boxes of photographs labeled ‘African Catalogue’. Casually, she examined the contents. As the description explained, it really did contain photographs and they certainly were from the African continent – a jungle village in god-knows-where. There were lots of photographs, black and white prints with a pearly shine, depicting all kinds of black-skinned natives.

At first, she was not surprised that all the natives were in fact completely naked – the negro women with their banana-like breasts and bullet-shaped nipples; and the well-endowed negro men and boys. Some obscured their identities hiding behind hideous animal-like masks and horned headpieces; some adorned with bone-fragment necklaces; their skin evidenced ritual scaring; and other forms of ceremonial adornment.

But as she looked more carefully, she noticed that the photographer had captured these young native girls frantically masturbating themselves and the young native boys stroking their aroused penises. It was obscene. Disgusting. Picture after picture, some close up, others showing the extent of the gathering. They all seemed to be performing some kind of frenzied sexual dance, as part of a profane ritual around an evil-looking statue.

The photographer had gone to some lengths to document this strange sexual idol that stood as tall as any of the men. With the head and horns of a goat and the torso of a naked female, it was endowed with an enormous erect phallus that extended upwards from between its open-hoofed legs. More pictures showed even greater atrocities and sacrilege, and the dancers became fornicators before the camera – each image leading towards increasingly perverse sexual acts.

Among the pictorial references, there were some hand-written notes that seemed to explain some of the strange depictions.

“Congo River. July 26th. 1895. After three days of travel, we reach our destination. Accompanied by my trusted Winchester, we disembark. Ahead of us, we have made contact with a remote tribe of interest. Their drums are restless. They beat insistently and wildly as groups of young naked men, women, and children form themselves in circles and excitedly perform dances, consisting of violent contortions of the limbs and vigorous masturbation, accompanied by savage chanting as each dancer tries to outdo each other.

The Witch Doctor had granted me his blessing to watch them, to record their ritual. It is barbaric. It is perverse. I must observe without interruption to truly understand these salvage people. As the ritual starts there seemed to be a high level of intoxication, increasing their excitement and showing their savageness. Human sacrifices, usually young slaves, boys, and girls of about ten years old, who all this time have been painfully stretched naked between poles, suffering the agony and suspense which this wild tumult suggests to them, are now surrounded and to receive the jeers and scoffs of the drunken mob of savages.

The witch doctor’s male ceremonial assistants are already molesting these naked children – penetrating their vaginas and anuses. During this rape preparation the dances are resumed, now rendered savage and brutal in the extreme by the drunken condition of the worshiper. One group of dancers surrounds the first male victim and indulges in drunken mimicry of the contortions of their face, which the pain caused by this cruel torture forces him to show. But there is no sympathy to expect from this merciless horde.

Presently in the distance approaches a company of two lines of young people, each holding a stem of a palm tree so that an arch is formed between them, under which the white doctor/executioner is escorted. The whole procession moves with a slow but dancing gait. Upon arriving near the doomed slave all dancing, singing, and drumming cease, and the drunken mob take their places to witness the last act of the drama. An unearthly silence succeeds.

The witch doctor wears a cap composed of black cocks’ feathers; upon his chest a necklace of severed penises; his face and neck are blackened with charcoal, except the eyes, the lids of which are painted with white chalk. The hands and arms to the elbow, and feet and legs to the knee, are also blackened. As he performs a wild dance around his first victim, every now and then making a feint with his knife, a murmur of admiration arises from the assembled crowd.

He then approaches and makes a thin chalk mark around the genitals of the fated boy. After two or three passes of the knife, to get the right swing, he slices the boy’s penis and balls off. The sight of the blood spraying brings to a climax the frenzy of the natives: the drunken dancers explode in a frenzy of sexual acts, as they smear one anothers’ genitals with the boy’s blood and the witch doctor holds aloft the severed organs.

Sister Marie felt weak at the knees. Looking at these images and reading the Father’s detailed account of the savagery gave her the strangest itchy feeling in her groin, her head thumped with excessive blood flow. A single droplet of wetness slid down the inside of her thighs beneath the heat of her course habit. It was a dirty and bizarre feeling. Not unpleasant, but it seemed to degrade her Christian values.

The Father’s words, “I have experienced things, hideous things, and evil things!” echoed in her mind.

She looked up from her intimate study of the Father’s photographic collection, her eyes guided by a Geiger counter in her head. Looking towards the second package. She stepped over to it and carefully removed the remainder of the package. Inside a large article was wrapped carefully, and as she pulled back the covering it revealed the dark wood that she immediately recognized as that of the idol that had featured so prominently in the photographs. Again, her fingers tingled with a strange sensation as she held the fabric cover.

She drew back the black sheet that protected the idol. It smelt funky almost acrid, and beneath the wet earthen pitch there was a baser aroma that she could not identify – was it blood, urine, sexual fluids, or a mixture of all? It looked as it did in the photographs. Black polished wood, smooth and warm to the touch. Close up, the primitive idol looked even more depraved. Marie hesitantly touched its phallus – long and hard – she ran her fingers down the underside of its veined length imagining herself riding her stepfather’s cock. She shuddered in confused sexual arousal.

Unsure what to think or do, Sister Marie, hurriedly covered the idol, stuffed the highly pornographic photographs away, and decided that it was too late to continue the work. She would recommence her chores in the morning, fresh and unabated by her unwanted wayward thoughts.



Returning to her humble lodgings, she closed the door behind her and lent against it. She took a deep breath and held it in her pounding chest. She first removed her wimple and then pulled the rough fabric of her habit over her head, discarding it as she walked. Marie stood for a moment before her dressing mirror and blinked at her ashen nakedness. Her nipples were drawn to blood-red points, erect and sensitive to the touch. Her pallid goose-bump flesh was wet with a light glaze of perspiration.

The things she had seen and even touched. Fertility gods covered in menstrual blood. Curved phalluses curved from human victims. Hermaphroditic idols. The Baphomet. These were the toys of Satan. Vile. Disgusting. Arousing. Her clitoris looked inflamed too. Its usual tiny pea-sized stature was swollen, elongated, sticking forth from its sheath of skin, pointing upwards almost thumb-like. She ignored the slick fluids that saturated her inner thighs with a fallacious prayer for forgiveness.

“Forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone who is indebted to us. And lead us … not into … temptation.”

Her voice quivered and faulted as her fingertips brushed against her engorged clitoris.

The simple gesture brought a tidal wave of orgasmic delight that swept across her as she collapsed upon her simple bedding in a euphoric mind-numbing daze. She felt so lethargic. Sleep gripped her before she had time to change into her usual nightgown. Uneasy dreams began to fill her mind.

Caught in the delirium of events past and present, even in slumber, her sinful body was far from sate – a single orgasmic release was not the answer. Sister Marie’s pupils constricted and moved back and forth beneath her eyelids to vexatious dreams. They were nightmares of jungle heat and the insistent sound of insect life croaking and chirping in the darkness. It was a sweaty prickly heat.

She was there. She was a witness to the wickedness. There was to be no martyrdom in equatorial Africa. She envisioned Father Boyle. He never brought messianic spiritualism. There was no noble mission only the screams of the victims of the primitive jungle sacrifices. Father Boyle incited the blood cries of the cannibalistic natives – he was the great white witch doctor. They called him the ‘white devil’ — as they danced, chanted, and raped young ones and eat their bloody flesh to his evil demands.

She was there. She was among them. Her elevated heart sounded as if there were native drums beating inside her chest as she danced and cavorted naked before the evil hermaphroditic idol – before him, the instrument of the devil, before the naked and erect handsome Father Boyle. Now she thrust her hips back and forth in the same violent and sacrilegious ritual – preparing to offer herself to him. She wanted his cock inside her. She wanted to mount the idol. She wanted them all – nigger cocks in her every hole – violating her, filling her with their semen.

Upon her bed, Sister Marie tossed and turned, drenched in the fetid smell of her unclean armpit, genitals, and anus. Her miscreant fingers subconsciously pressed against her elongated clitoris. Rubbing herself wantonly, she bucked against her digits, sending delicious stabs of pleasure as she dreamt of cavorting back and forth. Their nigger smell filled her nostrils. The young well-endowed males sucked their own cocks. Auto-fellatio. The serpent eats its own tail. The white witch doctor was their magus – now disguised in a tribal mask he wears the necklace of severed cocks. There will be no salvation for the young slaves. These boys and girls would be offered to these sex demons – raped, killed, eaten.


Sister Marie awakens from a cacophonous vision, panting on the verge of another of her forbidden orgasm. It was crystal clear in her mind. Her realization was that there was no conversion of heathens to Christianity. This had not been about the study of primitive gods, but the worship of the devil — the real purpose of Father Boyle’s work was not one of goodness, a malevolent agenda had hijacked them all and there was real and omnipresent evil in their beloved convent. She must destroy the evil, as she should have stopped her stepfather and mother all those years ago. Sin. Wickedness. Iniquity. She must warn the new Reverend Mother without delay.

She failed to dress properly as she dragged herself to the task at hand. Sister Marie’s mind was filled with anxiety and trepidation as she ran almost naked, her bare feet padding heavily against the stone flooring, down the dark convent corridors towards the West Wing, and towards the rooms of Father Boyle.

His great work was a complete sham. He was wicked personified. He was a magus, an evil man haranguing goodness with a corrupt will – she had heard the fecundity of his heinous cant before in the embodiment of her pedophile stepfather. His words reverberated in her awakened mind. the ways of evil; in ways of darkness; enjoy doing evil and celebrate perversion; whose ways are devious; Devious yes! Profane yes! Perverted yes! Father Boyle had to be stopped at any cost.

As she approached his room, she could see that there was some kind of candlelight vigil accompanied by the sounds of Latin prays. She slowed her approach. Catching her breath, the words formed meaning. It was a prayer she had heard before – A prayer to evoke sex demons.

“In Nomine Dei Nostri Satanas, Luciferi Excelsi. Accipe puerum sacrificium.”

Her heart stopped. Was she too late? Inside the room, there was a semi-circle of naked acolytes and novices praying before the devil – each masturbating, the boys pumped their cocks in their fists, and the young girls fucked their cunts with inverted wooden crucifixes. Unobserved from the doorway, she saw Father Boyle balls-deep in the anus of a bucking young novice spread-eagled across a low altar that had been erected before the profane dual-sex idol.

He grunted in an effort to ram his hard cock harder and harder into the boy’s bowels. The look on Father Boyle’s face was contorted in dark pleasure. Over the novice’s upturned face crouched on her hunches was the new Reverend Mother. She was naked with her bareback turned towards Marie. Marie could hear the echoing moans of the Reverend Mother, expressing her gratification as she rocked back and forth over the boychild’s face drenching it in her sexual juices.

Sister Marie leaned heavily against the door frame, her own cunt hot, itchy, and lubricated like never before. Insane with lewdness. Insane with carnality. Insane with lust. As the Reverend Mother heaved in expectation of her approaching orgasm, she reached for a long sacrificial knife that lay prone next to the altar.

Marie gasped out loud as she saw the Reverend Mother castrate the boy. His blood strayed everywhere and his screams smothered beneath her sex. Both the Reverend Mother and Father Boyle turned quickly to face the sleuth. She was caught. Paralyzed by fear. Father Boyle grinned broadly as he allowed his thick long cock to slip slowly from the bloody boy’s bottom. The Reverend Mother turned to face Marie. Marie’s eyes glanced downwards seeing that her erect clitoris had the appearance of an almost fully formed cock. She was as much the subversive as the evil Father Boyle – as they lock eye-to-eye as semen-like fluids squirted upwards from her demonic appendage over her breasts and lower face. All went black.


Sister Marie awake suddenly. Her head pounded and her vision was still blurred. It felt like early evening, as the light from the high-set windows was low and almost twilight in its feel. This was confirmed by the distant sound of the old chapel bells calling the Sisters to evening prayer. It was reassuring. She was not in her own bed. It was the convent infirmary – a dowdy place tucked away in the sub-basement of the Eastern Wing with only high horizontal to light the interior. Her body felt weak and bruised. She must have suffered a fever. She remembered glimpses of things, but could not hold any specific thoughts in her mind for very long. A familiar face appeared. It was one of her designated acolytes, Kirsten.

“Evening Sister. Anita and I were off to the chapel, but we thought we would drop by and see how you are going. The Reverend Mother says that you were found collapsed in the West Wing in the early hours. Nothing broken. She says you need rest. Thank God.”

Sister Marie smiled and nodded in appreciation. There was a pause, a memory, not fully formed, but she saw the faces of Father Boyle and the Reverend Mother. What had she done? Had she done something compromising? She could not grasp it. She felt shame. What had they done? Something was not right.


Anita and Kirsten had long gone when Sister Marie stirred again. It was now dark outside and the infirmary had an almost dungeon-like quality about it. She heard the sound of several pairs of sandal-ed feet entering the infirmary. She tried to sit up but found that she was secured to the bed railings with leather restraints on her wrists and ankles.

She remembered that she had seen something very unsavory, something unbecoming of the Convent of the Righteous God. There was something evil in their midst. She had to warn the Reverend Mother? The Reverend Mother? There was something about the Reverend Mother. She had a nightmare, a blasphemous nightmare. She was once again at the mercy of evildoers. the ways of evil; in ways of darkness; enjoy doing evil and celebrate perversion; whose ways are devious; Devious yes! Profane yes! Perverted yes!

“Ah, Sister Marie, you are awake.”

It was the Reverend Mother Teresa. She looked radiant as usual in her pure white cowl. Standing behind her was Father Boyle and a number of young acolytes. The Reverend Mother pulled the bed sheet away, exposing Sister Marie’s naked body beneath, as if to undertake some kind of medical procedure – but instead, it was a move calculated to cause Sister Marie the discomfort of exposure – be it both physical and emotional.

“Why am I here?” asked Sister Marie.

“It seems you fell, Sister. You were found naked and unconscious. You are not well Sister. Sister Hilary, the infirmary nurse, suggests you rest.”

“Why am I restrained, Reverend Mother?”

“For your own good Sister Marie.”

“I don’t understand?”

Was it another nightmare or reality? She saw a bloody ritual, an evil ritual in the Father’s rooms. A masturbation rite. A young novice boy was raped and castrated. The evil phallic idol soaked in his blood. The cannibalistic god. The savages worship the devil.

“You have been possessed.”

“Me? Possessed. I saw you! I saw you both! I saw you kill that boy! I saw … I saw your … penis!” Cried Sister Marie in frustration and disgust.

Now Sister Marie tried to twist against her restraints. The Reverend Mother laughed out loud.

“You are possessed. Listen to yourself! Nobody is dead. A penis – how ridiculous? You are a heretic – to think that I trusted you with the holy work of Father Boyle. You are bewitched!”

“No. No. No. It’s all the wrong way around. Father Boyle is the magus. You are both devil worshipers. I know what you’re up to. You won’t get away with it. You cannot bring damnation to our Order!”

Sister Marie thrashed against her bindings to no avail.

“Subdue her now. Unclean spirits have polluted her. Spiritus immundus. She should stay locked in the infirmary indefinitely where she will no harm to others or to herself. I shall then decide what to do with her.”

Sister Hilary stepped forward, steadied Sister Marie’s arm, and quickly jabbed her indifferently with a syringe filled with clear liquid. Sister Marie felt its effect almost instantaneously. There is the buzz of white noise. The cooling fluids quickly invaded her body. What followed was a swirling of the infirmary around her. Consumed by the giddiness, her mind was a convoluting maelstrom of reverberating voices whose decay, the number of reflections, doubled with every moment.

“Can-Can we-we play-play-play with-with-with her-her-her-her-her?” asked one of the attending acolytes, brushing her fingers over Sister Marie’s sensitized nipples.



To be continued …


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