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: 13.11.2015 / REVISITED: 19.08.2023

Magus 2


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 ten years prior to where our story began in the first chapter of this tale. Back then, Reverend Mother Teresa was still only a young cloistered nun only and dreamt of serving the Order of the Righteous God in greater ways than the rest of her sisterhood. Born with a congenital defect that had brought her personal shame, the young Teresa had sort asylum from the world in the Order. Among the Sisterhood, Teresa felt that her secret would never be revealed.

It was about that time that Sister Teresa met the enigmatic priest, Brother Franklin Boyle, who was set to join an important missionary expedition, headed by the famed Bishop of the Congo to the still vastly under-explored and exploited Dark Continent of the Congo. He recruited Sister Teresa and a number of the sisterhood to assist him on this intrepid journey that was fated to turn from God-serving to self-serving and from righteous to evil.


It is the year of our Lord 1885. The leaves of the trees had turned golden brown in the embers of the autumn evening. The fair Sister Teresa knelt before the altar in the old Gothic chapel of the Order of the Righteous God. The night was beginning to turn chilly and most of the other Sisters were already preparing for their rest.

Sister Teresa had come to the order almost one year to the day, seeking uncertain asylum from her short but troubled life and to fulfill her need to serve God Almighty. Her Father, a wealthy banker from the National Provincial Bank in Bishopsgate, and her mother, a popular socialite, had intended for her to marry the prosperous and up-and-coming son of another well-to-do family. Her potential fiancé to be, Robert Westinghouse, was devastated by her refusal to marry him.

Her life, as Mrs. Westinghouse, could have been so perfect if only she had been perfect. Teresa had a secret. A secret that she thought so terrible, that she was prepared to hide away rather than it ever be discovered. As a very young child she had noticed that she was different from the other little girls – she had heard her mother describe it as a congenital abnormality, but what she knew was that her clitoris was not only enlarged and elongated, but resembled a penis.

She remembered an unfortunate incident, involving one of her Aunts on her mother’s side of the family. Her Aunt had commented to her mother about monster births; quoting the bible she said ‘women in their uncleanness will bear monsters’ and that her child had the mark of the Devil – a curse, her righteous Aunt had said, would bring disgrace and humiliation upon their whole family. Her mother had taken no heed, but it had still affected Teresa greatly. Was she a blight to the family? Was she damned? Did Jesus not love her? Was she truly an evil child?

A blessing was that her outward appearance laid no indication of her intersex deformity. Puberty however brought Teresa further gender confusion. As her unnatural mix of hormones took their course, she found that she was sexually attracted to both the boys and the girls in her school classes – and despite the many attractions she felt and her overheating sexual desires, there were to be no relationships there. She was far too afraid of her own defects and the threat of being exposed – deliberate or not.

She became aloft and cold on the outside, whilst privately resorting to long masturbation fests in which her sensitized clit demanded brutal treatment resulting in orgasm after orgasm – and as she was cumming, she would allow herself to imagine all manner of unnatural sex acts – the more deviant the better. When she got bored with sex fantasies about her young school friends, she began to invent more sinister lovers – demonic lovers who truly appreciated her hermaphroditic abnormalities, in fact, they too were like her, with both feminine bodies and insatiable phallic things that grew disproportionately between their thighs. In these evil fantasies, she took the role of the sexual aggressor. She was a she-demon, with the mark of the Devil himself, sated only by the most perverse of bisexual orgies, occult sex rituals of rape, and corruption of others – especially those younger and even more vulnerable than herself.

Fantasy and dreams seemed to mix together. She would often awaken hot and excited from a vivid dream, needing to relieve herself by masturbating over and over. She often dreamt of a cave, a dark place that was used to worship a female demon – she saw this demon as a gaunt little girl about her own age. The girl with short raven-black hair and pale white flesh would touch herself whilst holding her vagina open as if inviting vaginal penetration. In young Teresa’s dream, this fragile girl was never penetrated – instead, something emerged from within her, revealing her real demonic nature. At first, there was only a narrow protrusion that seemed to emerge from the opening of her vagina.

As the protrusion pressed forward, it grew in both girth and length, until Teresa saw it for what it truly was – a serpent with the head of a penis. It grew as thick as her wrist — seemingly not to want to escape from within, but to melt together with the young girl – transforming itself into her phallus. Once transformed, the demon girl would rub the protrusion, reveling in its sexual prowess and taking the crown of the serpent cock into its own mouth as it began to orgasm like a fire hose.

As she grew up these fantasies manifested in private, but outwardly Teresa became more and more reclusive about her condition — at the same time, unbeknown to her family, her defect seemed to get worse. She shunned any activities that would bring the possibility of exposure and Teresa went to extreme lengths to keep her condition a secret – faking illness to stay away from school.

It was in a moment of deep regret for all her sinfulness that she pledged herself to a more pious life. It was a revelation. She wanted to reject these corrupt thoughts. She would leave her family and become a cloistered nun where she would be able to remain concealed forever – only God would know and hopefully forgive.

That was all a long time ago now. In the quiet chapel, she prayed quietly for sacred guidance as she put her pubescent thoughts behind her. It was never easy. The temptation was always there. The Lord would forgive her for all her digressions, as long as she took the righteous path towards salvation. Her year spent at the Order of the Righteous God had taught her many things but left her still wanting.

On the most fundamental level, she would exhaust herself to the point where her mind could never stray from the work of the Lord – tired to the bone, she would collapse from pure exhaustion – at peace with herself again. However, Teresa did find the work in the convent at best repetitive, mundane, and mostly colorless. She hankered to find her true meaning in life that underpinned the commitment she had made to God.

She was sure that there was something that she was destined to do – defective or not. Something important that would somehow make up for everything. She wanted a task that would be enlightening. She just did not know what that was. Her faith told her that she was sure that God Almighty had a heavenly plan for her. Maybe it was a magnificent plan — something that could overturn her thoughts of the ‘Devil’s mark’ and her low self-esteem. She asked for His holy blessing to show her the light of His transcendence and divination.


It was the next day, at a gathering of the Sisterhood of the Order of Righteous God, that they were introduced to the enigmatic priest, Brother Franklin Boyle. Brother Boyle was set to join an important missionary expedition, headed by the famed Bishop George Smith-Baker. The priest was to travel to the troubled continent of the Congo River Basin to help the Bishop spread the word of the Lord.

“Sisters, I would like to introduce to you our beloved Brother and our representative of the Order of the Righteous God in the Congo, Brother Franklin Boyle,” announced the Reverend Mother Catherine.

There was spasmodic applause followed by the appearance of a youthful and exuberant man dressed as all the Brotherhood of their Order. He was not particularly tall or muscular; in fact, he was no more than twenty years old and did not look capable of taking on any form of hazardous undertaking.

“Brother Boyle will be leaving upon the morrow, to return to the shores of the Congo. He has asked me for volunteers to escort him on this important mission,” the Reverend Mother gestured to their guest, “…Brother Boyle.”

“Sisters,” intimated the priest standing next to the Reverend Mother at the chapel rostrum, “As Reverend Mother Catherine has pointed out that this vocation is not without setbacks and dangers,“ he paused dramatically, “Our mission is located in one of the most troubled parts of the Congo.”

“What exactly do you expect Brother Boyle? What are these dangers you speak of?” asked one of the older cloistered nuns.

“Well Sisters, if there were no troubles, there would be no need for the Order to intervene. It is true that the Congo is rife with black heathens, godless souls, who bow down to all manner of strange spirits and wicked totems – I know of tribes along the Congo River partaking in acts of barbaric enslavement, ritual cannibalism, and even human sacrifice.”

“Brother Boyle will be meeting our Bishop George Smith-Baker.” Continued the Reverend Mother.

“Yes. The Bishop has called upon us all, saying that it be our god-fearing duty, to bring Christian values to these wicked people – to bring an end to the senseless slaughter, and godlessness and to drive the devil out from their profane villages. I have asked the Reverend Mother for volunteers to join the mission, to provide their Sisterly expertise and the support of prayers, medical supervision, and other supporting roles at this outpost.”

The priest took a drink from the glass of water on the rostrum.

“Do, we have any volunteers?” asked the Reverend Mother.

Sister Teresa had been carefully studying the priest. There was something slightly unsettling about him, about his youthful appearance, about the casual way he spoke of such horrors with almost a glint of enjoyment in his tone. But regardless, this was the opportunity she had prayed for. It was a sign from God himself – an answer to her prayers in fact. She raised her hand as if to ask a question.

“Sister Teresa,” acknowledged the Reverend Mother.

“I would like to be one of those for consideration, Reverend Mother,” said Sister Teresa.

The other sisters turned to Sister Teresa and nodded their approval without venturing their own support. She felt Brother Boyle’s eye fall upon her. She noticed for the first time how dark his pupils were. They were coal-black and fully dilated. They seemed like pools of ebony, deep and fathomless. She felt the hairs stand upright on the nape of her neck.

“Sister Teresa – you are very young and inexperienced. You might not be what Brother Boyle is looking for?”

“Reverend Mother,’ interrupted Brother Boyle, “Quite the contrary. It will be quite physically demanding. At the mission, the strength and vitality of youth will be preferred.”

“Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable with Sisters that have more wisdom and maturity?” Asked the increasingly reluctant Reverend Mother.

“No. I believe that Sister …”

“Sister Teresa,” answered Sister Teresa, her voice elevated in the excitement of the moment.

“Yes, I believe that Sister Teresa would be perfect for what we require — call it intuition Reverend Mother.”


Sister Teresa was excited to have been given this opportunity. She packed her few personal belonging in readiness for this epic sea journey. It occurred to her, that because of her birth defect, that she had never ventured further than the comfort zone of her beloved town, let alone travel to a different continent. The wiry Brother Boyle had explained that it would take some twenty days from the placid docks of Greenwich, across the four-thousand-seven-hundred nautical miles to the wilds of the west coast of the French occupied, Congo.

Sister Teresa undressed herself in readiness for sleep, but the excitement was almost too much to bear. Her thoughts kept settling on the face of that youthful raven-like priest and his deep-set eyes – those unsettling dark eyes that seemed to look through her, seeking out her very soul. For the first time in years, she allowed her clitoris to grow hard and be expectant.

The fleshy protrusion pointed upwards with the length and girth of a grown man’s penis. She still hated herself for it. Jesus! But it was her cross the bear. If she was not marked by the devil, she certainly felt like a circus freak. Though it disgusted her – still her fingers brushed absentmindedly against its sensitive tip, drawing a cold shiver and an unchecked groan of self-pleasure that she had for so long refused to accept. It was to be a new beginning. This priest had awakened something deep inside of her. It was not savory.

What would the dark priest think of her – the circus freak nun with the genitals of both man and woman? The woman marked by the devil – like the conjoined twins, the bearded woman, the dwarf, and the giant. Of course, he could never know of her condition. Never. But for an instant, she allowed herself the fantasy of his hand touching her in her most vulnerable place.

She imagined his wiry body, naked before her, kneeling in one of her ritual-like fantasies, worshiping her clit-cock with eager hands and mouth – taking it into his moist mouth, pressing his lips against her unclean flesh and sucking her until she began to spasm over and over. As the pleasure receded the shame remained. She turned over in her bedding, trying to bury her forbidden desires.



The pilgrimage to the French Congo had been without incident on account of the good seas and moderate prevailing winds. For the best part of the journey Sister Teresa had tried to distance herself from the dark priest – though her mind was always thinking about him. She tried to focus her thoughts on the mission ahead. Now some six degrees south and twelve degrees east, the small group of missionaries of the Order of the Righteous God, found themselves on shore at last.

The Port of Banana was in complete chaos. Once a highly prosperous port that made its wealth from the transatlantic slave trade, after the international prohibition, it had continued its trade illegally, albeit its difficulties but still lucrative.

The French occupation had come with limited resources and willpower to stop the warring factions and tribes – which left an opening for those most adept and brutal at the practice of enslavement, still able to make a profitable living from the now underground business. It was a place of suffering and misery. Corrupt traders kidnapped young men, young women, and children – keeping them hidden from the authorities in secret camps until they could be transported to their destination. Many would die en route, never reaching the life of imprisonment that awaited them, and others would die within a year of their arrival, most from decease or their harsh treatment.

The plan was to regroup in the Port before traveling upriver further into the far reaches of the Congo basin to meet the Bishop. They would stay only a night in the Port and then depart at first light. Sister Teresa had kept to herself for most of the journey, but now on dry land, she was happy to be in the company of the strange priest that unwittingly had had a profound effect on her.

“Sister Teresa,” he said, “We will shortly be joining our Bishop in the most troubled area of the Congo. Are you afraid?”

“Brother Boyle,” she answered, “I volunteered remember? Strength and vitality of youth — isn’t that what you asked for?”

Brother Boyle laughed.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you don’t fear the unknown?”


“Of course.”

“Now what can I do to help Brother Boyle.”

“Provisions Sister. We need to get these provisions,” he passed Sister Teresa a list, “Can you accompany the Quartermaster, Monsieur Marcel Dumas, to the market and secure the necessary goods are secured for the mission?”

“Of course.”

“I will be meeting with Mr. Tadeas. He will be our native guide up the river. He knows the jungle trails and the local tribes and will assure us safe passage as far as the upper river trails.”

“Then Brother, Monsieur Dumas and I will take our leave to secure the provisions and meet you later at the Port Inn.”

Brother Boyle went to wipe the sweat from his brow, but Sister Teresa intervened, handing him her pure white handkerchief.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said.

“Monsieur will be expecting you then.”

“And I shall meet you back at the Port Inn?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said nodding as he carefully put her handkerchief into his breast pocket, as if stowing a precious gift.


Sister Teresa and the Quartermaster, Monsieur Marcel Dumas, took an open carriage across the Port to the marketplace. It was almost midday and the sun was scorching hot – especially for Sister Teresa dressed in her long dark habit. The market was bustling with traders and goods and gave some shelter under its makeshift wooden verandas.

“Bonne sœur du matin,” (Good morning Sister) said the Quartermaster.

“Good morning, Monsieur Dumas.”

“Please, call me Marcel.”

“Oui, Monsieur Dumas,” she answered.

The Quartermaster laughed.

“You English penguins are all the same!”

“How’s that Monsieur Dumas?”

“This is a dangerous place Sister. Je ne sais pas. (I do not know). No place for the likes of you. There’s trouble at the mission. I heard many dark rumors – you know about the Le Cannibale Blanc?”

“White Cannibal? Sounds ominous!”

“It is Sister. Sainte Mère de Dieu (Holy Mother of God). Eats people – he does. They say he’s a mal démon du sexe (evil sex demon).”

“Well, I am sure that the Bishop will have a plan to sort this out right?”

“Merde! (Shit),” he swore, “I just wanted to warn you that’s all, as I don’t think you realize what you are getting yourself into here. Maybe best you turn around and go back to the place where all you English penguins come from.”

“Warn us of what exactly — jungle hearsay about some Le Cannibale Blanc?”

“It’s not hearsay Sœur Maîtresse (Mistress Sister). I have it on good authority from a few comrades that were lucky enough to escape with their lives – they wouldn’t be able to make this shit up, as they really don’t have the imagination nor the aptitude to do such – so, do you want to hear me out or not?”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to question your good intention – it just sounds rather far-fetched that’s all.”

“No offense taken. Well. Where to start?” the Quartermaster pondered for a second, chewing down on the thick stub of his cigar, “I’ve heard them talk about this tribe that worships some serpent-thing in a cave.”

“A cave? A serpent?” she mouthed without sound.

“It is a fierce tribe that uses violence and ritual to intimidate the other tribes around them. They believe in some kind of devil cult and spend their time worshiping a phallic idol, a hermaphroditic goddess, with the genitals of both a man and a woman – Des trucs vraiment effrayant (truly creepy stuff).”

Sister Teresa felt her own clit harden at such a familiar and diabolical plot. Could such a delicious evil really exist? Her pubescent fantasies of she-devil worship came crashing back as her cunt juices streamed down the inside of her thighs. She tried to focus on the quartermaster’s words, not wanting to miss anything he had to tell her.

“And …” she pressed.

“I mean, they don’t call this guy the Le Cannibale Blanc (The White Cannibal) for nothing. I heard others say he’s Le Démon Blanc, La Sorcière Blanche de Médecin” (The White Demon, The White Witch Doctor) who kills his own. Not just the nigger children, but he has a taste for the white settlers as well, especially the young ones – come in the night they do. His tribal men and women abduct them and take them back to their cave. They do all kinds of Voudou and black magic there. Viol et de Mort Culte (Rape and Death Cult). Rape the young ones, torture them in these horrific rituals, cutting off their sexual organs and eating them for their virility.”

“Black magic?” Sister Teresa was on the verge of quaking.

“Magie Noire! Le Diable (The Devil) himself I reckon.”

“Sorry Monsieur Dumas. I feel rather faint in the midday sun, please take me back to the Port Inn for a while.”

“Of course. This is not the place for English Penguins! And all this talk of méfait tribale (tribal mischief) must be very upsetting.”

“Please. Just take me back.”


Upon their return to the lodgings, Sister Teresa excused herself and retired to the privacy of her room. She locked the door and closed the curtains to create an artificial night. Slipping from her sweat-drenched clothing, she lay out on the cool bed sheets. Sister Teresa took a deep sigh. She contemplated strange tropical diseases that could strike a man (or a woman) down within hours; wild beasts that hunted among the jungle foliage; of savages so brutal that violent death was omnipresent. But most of all she thought upon the words of the quartermaster – about the strange rumor of the White Cannibal and the even stranger ritual practices of devil worship, human sacrifice, and cannibalism. Her eyes were heavy from the fatigue of the midday sun, she slipped into an uneasy rest.


It was quite late by the time the Dark Priest returned from his meeting with the native guide, Tadeas. With plans all set in motion, Brother Boyle inquired about the supplies with the Quartermaster. His eyes narrowed to slits upon learning about Monsieur Dumas’s conversation with Sister Teresa.

“I did as you asked Brother, but she looked quite distraught. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her?”

“No. No, you did well. It’s the way the Bishop has instructed,” answered Brother Boyle retrieving the Sister’s pure white handkerchief from his breast pocket, “Another drought before bed?”

The priest felt his bladder already pressing in his groin.

“Sure. A nightcap maybe?”

Returning to his room, Brother Boyle closed the door. His bladder was bloated and urgent, as he needed to urinate desperately. He stripped from his priestly clothing and knelt naked before an unseen idol. His breathing had already taken a turn for the erratic – excited with wicked intent. He carefully wrapped his erect penis in Sister Teresa’s soft fabric handkerchief. Brother Boyle grunted in animalistic pleasure and muttered strange incantations as the first pearly drips of piss escaped the tip of his rock-hard cock. The pure white fabric of Sister Teresa’s handkerchief quickly stained transparent yellow, as he rubbed it against the length of his hard-on and began to urinate into the soft and absorbent fabric.

His occult muttering become louder, and his eyeball moved back and forth behind his lidded eyes as he willed his perverted vision into the mind of the handkerchief’s owner. The warm piss flowed through his fingers, dripping down his legs, as the saturated fabric could no longer absorb any more of his pungent urine. He brought the soaked fabric to his mouth and sucked at its salty contents. Wickedness spread as the mystical sinus reached out into the astral space between the Dark Priest and his intended victim — searching, polluting, and corrupting. He groaned even louder, urinating directly into his own mouth, as he pissed-wanked to the brink of orgasm, his entire body quaked in strange spasms as he ejaculated into her piss-drenched handkerchief.


Teresa stirred in explicit nightmares.

All that talk about sexual demons, serpents, and phalluses, of naked savage rituals in mysterious caves had stirred her unexpectedly. A storm was coming. Teresa could feel the wet electricity and hear the unseen thunderclouds. Her dreams enveloped her in the stench of the malicious jungle heat – surrounding her in its nighttime bewitchment. There she was in the heart a small clearing covered by a canopy of greenness.

Teresa could see the hideous black wooden idol, soaked in the blood of the innocent and semen of the wicked, prone in all its androgynous glory. She knelt before it, to worship it, to offer herself to it in her naked anticipation beneath the circle of burning torches. The rich smell of the primitive earth rose from beneath her bare feet mixed with her own pungent sweat that perfumed her naked body. The persistent sound of native drums beat loudly in her ears. It was raw, untamed, and carnal.

As she turned from the omnipresent idol, there stood before her three malnourished and emaciated young native children, their shaved heads bowed, all no older than ten years of age. The shiny blackness of their sweaty skin gleamed in sharp contrast against the pure whiteness of their soft fabric loin clothes.

The first young child, who stood in the center, flanked by his two companions, raised his head and grinned at the naked nun with bright white teeth and piercing eyes as he stared at her unnatural genitalia. Teresa’s eyes were drawn downwards towards the aching bulge beneath the light fabric that encased the child’s excited genitals – the material seemed to fill out as the swelling pressed and strained against the fabric — larger and larger in its confinement before her very eyes.

The child made no attempt to hide his sexual arousal, in fact, quite the opposite. His narrow bony hips began to gyrate. As they rolled and thrust towards Teresa, in time with the persistent sound of drums. As he danced lewdly before her and the idol, the whiteness of the fabric began to turn translucent yellow. Pungent fluids split forth directly through the fabric barrier and down the side of his almost fleshless thighs as the movements of his pelvic dance become even more vigorous.

Teresa wanted to look away as her religious shame and guilt of sinfulness burned inside her chest – the shame that seemed in complete opposition to the flames that licked the inside of her spread thighs. Her clit was hard and demanded to be rubbed, her cunt began to cream with unwanted arousal as her intimate fluids dribbled uncontrollably.

The first nigger child now advanced. Standing only inches from her burning face. Teresa watched as the boy’s fingers stroked his penis through the silky fiber cover – its long black flesh completely visible through the urine-soaked material of his loincloth. Her mouth felt dry and cotton-like with anticipation.

The aroma of arousal, urea, and nigger sweat overwhelmed her senses. The boy reached out to her and grabbed hold of the sides of Teresa’s head, pressing his piss-wet loins against her face. Grinding against her open mouth, Teresa could taste the foulness of the boy’s fluids pass over her lips. She subconsciously drew in the sharp acrid taste as she wantonly sucked the trapped urine from his soiled loincloth, welcoming it into her mouth as her lips pressed against the outline of the boy’s throbbing erection.

Freeing his cock from the sodden material he held it out to the naked nun. Teresa accepted the pre-offered loincloth and lay back against the steaming jungle floor before the black idol as she squeezed the rest of its liquid content into her open mouth. The boy began to mount her, pressing the head of his boy-cock against her oily vagina lips as his hands closed around the girth of her cock-like clit.

The boy’s unnaturally long cock now fully penetrated her and his vice-like grip on her cock pumped as he thrust balls deep into her hungry cunt. The boy grunted in his labor and pumped his boy semen into her womb. He withdraw and the other two boys gathered around her, their cocks soaking their fabric loin cloths with sickly yellow piss. One immediately set about taking over from where the first boy had been, ramming his cock into cum-soak cunt, while the other pressed his erect pissing snake into her eager mouth.


The final leg of the journey began. Tadeas had arranged their safe passage up the river to the location of the Bishop’s mission. The jungle paths gave a more direct route than the meandering river, but that would have meant traveling through the lands of some of the most inhospitable tribes – tribes that would have extracted a price in return for passing through unharmed. The convoy of small canoes was filled with both the missionaries of the Order of the Righteous God and the supplies needed by the Bishop.

Brother Boyle and Teresa took the lead boat with Tadeas and four of his black slaves to power the boat upstream. In the next canoe sat Sister Mary, Sister Collette, and Sister Samantha, all of whom had been waiting for Father Boyle in the Port of Banana. The remaining three canoes carried medical supplies, firearms, some canned foods, and other essential tools requested by the Bishop.

They had left early, while the sun was still low on the horizon, but now in the midday sun, Sister Teresa felt uncomfortable hot in her habit. She wished, like the natives that drew the canoe through the water, she could feel the breeze against her fair and vulnerable skin.

“May I ask, Mr. Tadeas, how much further to go?” said Sister Teresa breaking the silence.

“Madam, we shall reach the Bishop’s encampment by the evening. Hopefully, without delay, we can reach before nightfall. The jungle is a treacherous place without the light. If we miss the sunset, we will have to camp near the river until the next morn,” answered Tadeas.

Sister Teresa crooked her neck forward to catch his reply hampered by his thick African accent.

“At noon, we break the journey at the turn of the river. That’s another six hours of hard rowing. We will need to rest the slaves before continuing onwards.”

Sister Teresa looked on past Tadeas bulky shape, as he stood silhouetted at the bow of the canoe. Her mind returned to the fragmented memory of her erotic dream. The thoughts disturbed her – even scared her. Did the devil himself await them? She felt ashamed of her excitement. She prayed for forgiveness. She prayed for salvation. She prayed for the fortitude to stand against the wickedness that seemed to come from within, as well as which seemed to have surrounded her.

Brother Boyle slid across on the seat next to her and interrupted her private thoughts.

“Did you rest well?” asked the Dark Priest.

“It was a rather restless night. I had some rather disturbing dreams, Brother,” she answered.

“Would confession alleviate your woos, Sister?”

There was an undeniable glint in his eye. As if there were a profane connection between the Dark Priest and her dreams of perverted sex with nigger children.

“Brother, I am deeply ashamed of my unconscious thoughts. They betray a wickedness that I have felt ever since we met.”

Yes. She thought. There had been a stirring of her unwanted pubescent fantasies ever since they had met – maybe it was his attractiveness to her. She would need to pray for the strength of denying these yearnings.

“It is the jungle Sister. I would be foolish to think that we can not be unmoved by its insidious and carnal nature.”

“But Brother, I dream of taboo and forbidden things; of dark rituals, evil idols, and sexual wickedness.” She lowered her head, ashamed of her mutterings.

“And it would be a lie if I told you that you were alone.”

“What do you mean?”

The Dark Priest talked in whispers as though they were co-conspirators.

“I mean that this place is a cesspool of heathen debauchery — It is the devil’s playground. Like you, this place brings out the most unholy of thoughts in all of us — evil desires and lusts. We must face these fears and anxieties together.”

“But Brother, you don’t understand. Dare I say that there is a part of me that seems to welcome these dark thoughts,” apologized Sister Teresa meekly.

Her clit was now fully erect beneath the gathers of her gown. She wanted this Dark Priest – she wanted him to take her, sodomize her, and force her to perform all manner of unholy things.

“God moves in mysterious ways, Sister. Maybe in order to understand the light, we must first experience the darkness. And here, Sister, it is eternal night.”

The canon rocked in the undercurrents as the native rowers pressed forward upstream. Sister Teresa looked into his dilated irises. They promised something unsavory, but whatever that was, or wherever that led, this would need to be explored another time.



The mooring was no more than a crude wooden platform extending out from the steep embankment. They had made good time up the river. The black slaves nervously unloaded the supplies as the missionaries orientated themselves. Hideous hangings made from what looked like human skulls combined with dry animal parts were suspended from the trees close to the mooring.

The last sun had already dropped beneath the jungle canopy that surrounded them on all sides. From where they were the riverbank of the tributary had narrowed, so that the jungle had closed in, wrapping them in its lush green wall that reached up a hundred and fifty feet without any obvious pathways through it. Now the sounds of this distant land echoed the survival and death struggles of its local inhabitants – Sister Teresa no longer saw a serene image of God’s creation of natural beauty, but this was a battleground of species, all with the survival instincts to kill or be killed, to eat or be eaten. Suffice it to say, this context of nature’s evil had an impact on its human inhabitants – the mission, it seemed was an enigma to this ideal of death’s dance.

“Vodun talismans,” explained the Dark Priest, “They’re called ‘fetishes’, some are for healing and spiritual rejuvenation.”

“A welcome sign then?” Asked Sister Teresa.

“No – quite the opposite. These are more ominous – these have been placed here to attract the more malicious and evil of the so-called spirits. They are to frighten unwanted tribesmen away.”

As they embarked it began to rain. Not a light London mist or slight shower, it began to rain in a torrential downfall that immediately soaked Sister Teresa and the others to the skin.

Tadea’s men quickly slung their rifles and took up their long knives to hack back the rapid re-growth of the plants and trees that threatened to engulf the single-file track that led into this primal maze. Sister Teresa wiped the forest deluge from her brow with the back of her hand. She remembered how she had given her handkerchief to Brother Boyle and thought about how the native boy in her dream had been covered in something that had resembled it — a coincidence surely?

She noticed how the Dark Priest looked at her when he thought she was not looking. His eyes seemed to peel back the soaked layers of her clothing, undress her wantonly – seeking out her abnormalities as though they held a key to his desire for unnatural delights. She thought about their confessional conversation – could it be true that it wasn’t her and her alone that carried this lustful cross – maybe it was just her mind that was playing tricks in the steamy jungle rain.


Finally, they reached the modest set of buildings set in against the man-made clearing. The rain had stopped and torches of light welcomed them as they walked tired, drenched, and exhausted over the small wooden bridge that led over a freshwater stream and into the center of the encampment. Awaiting them was the entire staff of the Bishop.

“Welcome,” announced the Bishop with arms held aloft.

“Our Highness,” replied the Dark Priest.

Their personal familiarity did not extend to their sense of religious ranking. The Bishop was a legend. And the Dark Priest showed him reverence.

“You got caught in the downpour and must be all very tired after such a long journey,” added the Bishop, dressed in a long white robe.

“We are Your Highness. May I introduce to you Sisters; Teresa, Mary, Collette, and Samantha.”

He gestured toward the Sisters and they each advanced to kneel and kiss the back of the Bishop’s hand.

Tabea and his men deposited the supplies and made immediate preparations to leave. Tabea nodded to the Dark Priest and his party disappeared back down the same jungle trail that had brought them all to the encampment.

“Sisters, your presence here at the encampment will be greatly appreciated. The heathens are very restless. There has been much stirring going on and your prayers will help to quench their vile wickedness. Tonight, the drums are beating for their evil deity Ayida-Weddo – one of their Loa goddesses. Once you are settled, stay within the sanctity of the encampment – you will all be safe here.”

Sister Teresa liked this Bishop. For all the rhetoric, he seemed very down-to-earth and knowledgeable about the locale.

“Please, Sister Adisa will show you to your quarters. You will find fresh water and towels. Take no heed to the jungle. Rest up in safety tonight and we will speak further about your duties upon the morrow.”

Sister Adisa was one of several black nuns that stood to attention around their beloved Bishop. Her uprightness seemed to be dominant, yet graceful. Even covered by her habit, Sister Teresa could imagine her dark muscular physique, hardened from years of tough work in the service of the Lord. She took charge to lead the new Sisters to their accommodation. As they walked, Sister Teresa took the opportunity to talk to the nigger nun.

“Sister Adisa, I have heard many stories about this place. Is it as savage as they say? Or have the Port locals made to scare us?”

“Sister Teresa. I am not sure what you have been told. But the Bishop is the one who says who will live and who will die in his jungle. You are safe here as long as you do his bidding. You’d do best to follow his every instruction – the worshipers of Ayida-Weddo are absolute fanatics – they crave the sacraments of urine, blood, and semen.”

“Ayida Wedo?”

“Ayida-Weddo is a Loa of fertility, wind, water, fire, and snakes. We must stay out of their way or risk being offered up as sacrifices ourselves.”

They entered the crude lodging. Sister Adisa assigned her other nigger Sisters to look after Mary, Collette, and Samantha, as she took charge of Sister Teresa.


Alone the Bishop drew the Dark Priest close to him, as the two took leave to more private company. Once out of sight, the Dark Priest knelt again before his beloved Bishop and kissed the back of his hand. The Bishop opened his long white gown, beneath which he was completely naked. His long white penis stood fully erect and his large hairless ball hung low in the prickly heat.

“Oh great white demon. It is my calling to serve you and the will of Ayida-Weddo,” said the Dark Priest.

He removed his gown and took the Bishop’s cock into his hands as he guided its crimson-red dripping cock head into his open and willing mouth.

“Ahhhhhggggghhhh …”

The Bishop moaned with the oral pleasuring. The Dark Priest’s fingers gripped expertly, sliding back and forth on the veined shaft; as his mouth slurped noisily, sucking up his pre-cum juices, on the head of the Bishop’s cock.

“You have done well my servant. Ayida-Weddo will be pleased. Your black brothers and sister need to be sate. Tonight they offer us a great ritual orgy; to celebrate your return that brings even more white flesh than we hoped for. Come we must go to the cave and prepare.”

“Oh great white demon. There is something about one of the Sisters. Sister Teresa. I felt a kindred spirit. She has evil yearnings. I believe she is willing to serve the Devil?”


Sister Adisa assisted Sister Teresa will the simple unpacking of her personal things, and brought warm water and washcloths to her monastic, but private accommodation. She served Sister Teresa a warm nightcap that felt relaxing and slightly intoxicating.

“You are very confident of the Bishop’s ability to take care of his own. Don’t you have any fear? I hear they practice all manner of heathen things in the Congo. The quartermaster in the Port told me horrific stories of their practices – especially their savage rituals.”

“Oh Sister, I see you find interest in these.”

“No. I mean.”

“Sister, don’t be coy. I understand your interest. There is nothing wrong with it.”

“I don’t mean to sound …”

“Excited by it?”

“I meant to say, that it’s not my place to judge others and their beliefs”

“Let me tell you, Sister Teresa. I was once a savage. I have eaten the flesh of others. I have had sex with young ones in celebration of sex demons. But of course, the Bishop has shown me the light. Shown me what I need to do to serve the Righteous God.

“You have done these things?”

“Yes. But the Righteous God forgives.”

Sister Teresa felt the sharp stab of sexual arousal. Sister Adisa smiled with bright white eyes. Sister Teresa had seen that look before, in her dream about the young nigger children – it was the look of wickedness, lust, and corruption. Her clit-cock moved beneath the wet clothing.

“Come. Let me help you out of your wet clothing and assist you in bathing, Sister Teresa.”

“Thank you, Sister Adisa. I can manage on my own.”

“As you wish Sister. Remember to stay in your room until sun-up. I will come and find you in the morning.”

“Good night Sister Adisa.”

“Good night Sister Teresa.”


Even from the sanctuary of her chambers, Sister Teresa could hear the calling of the drums. Her clitoris had been hard for hours. She had never felt so aroused in all her years and her thoughts seemed dark and brooding.

Dressed in just a dark slip, she ventured out of her room. The veranda was empty, as it seemed all were hiding away in their respective rooms. Teresa followed the sound of the intermittent drums – their beat would be slow and deliberate, then suddenly fast followed by long pauses of silence. She glimpsed the white uniforms of one of the Black Sisters as she made her way some distance ahead. Teresa set forth to follow. Her bare feet felt the warm moisture of the jungle floor rising as she crept along, not wanting to alert the Sister of her intended tail.

The journey was not long and the Sister eventually brought her closer to the sound of the drums. It was then that Teresa released it was Sister Adisa. She had claimed to be reformed – maybe she was not? Maybe she was there just to keep an eye on things for the sake of those back at the encampment? Teresa did not actually care. Her senses were filled with the awe of the moment. The cave entry lay ahead, the trail was marked with ‘menacing looking ‘fetishes’ made from human remains and bones, and on either side of the cave were two tall phallus-like structures made from white bones of human skulls.

Teresa stepped inside the cave and hid behind the stalactites and stalemates that formed the perfect hiding place. From where she was, she had an excellent view of the entire cave. Its high ceiling was open to the night sky, but the light artificially created by the twin bonfires provided clear illumination. She could clearly make out a low stone podium and an elevated section upon which stood the ugly black idol of the androgynous Ayida-Weddo.

The walls were painted brightly with obscene effigies of their goddess subsumed in all manner of perverted and violent sexual acts accompanied by her young black followers. The drumming began again and two important-looking figures appeared upon the stone podium, both dressed in a long white gown – their identity obscured by the deep hoods. They both threw something dry into the fires on either side, a plume of reddish smoke erupted above the flames and the audience seemed to sound their immediate approval.

Though the reddish smoke from the fires raised upwards and outwards its smell filled Teresa’s lungs – a pungent aroma, slightly unpleasant, though its constituents seemed to have a strange effect on her libido. As she breathed in deeply, she stared at the twin-sex serpent goddess, whose naked body mirrored the sexual arrangement of Teresa’s, with both vagina and erect phallus. Though her vision seemed to blur in and out. Like a dream, she thought she saw the idol actually move, taking hold of its own erect phallus and then guiding it into the idol’s own mouth – the serpent swallows its own tail. She saw herself standing naked before it, as its high priestess, ordained by the oracle to serve this evil demon, she took, leaned forward to feast upon her own deformity – sucking her clit-cock in unbridled lust. She shook her head. Her out-of-control libido was stroking her to the point of sexual insanity.

The magnitude of her own over-heated libido seemed to be matched by the dancing crowd before their beloved Ayida-Weddo – all were naked and aroused as they thrust back and forth to the increasing pace of the native drums. Teresa’s eyes feasted on the depravity of the naked black dancers, so as young as nine or ten years old – as they danced, they urinated and masturbated crying out into the echoing cave. Teresa’s hands had a mind of their own; the right hand gripped her cock-clit, while her left hand thrust its fingers into her flooded cunt.

Half of the audience had already begun to pair off in piss-wet couples and trios, men with women, men with boys, women with girls, boys with boys – their dance transformed into a mating ritual performed upon their feet, as they thrust against each other between those who still danced. A climactic moment seemed to build out of this brutish orgy, as the two figures in the white gowns, stepped down into the throng of black bodies. They all cried for their appeal.

“With urine, blood, and semen!” the pair charmed.

“With urine, blood, and semen!” the crowd responded.

Removing their gown, Teresa immediately recognized both the Bishop and her Dark Priest. Their cocks were erect and soon they were copulating with some of the youngest of their worshiper – ramming themselves into mouths, cunts, and asses.

Teresa felt rather faint. She drew back from her secret hiding place. In the hysteria of the orgy, nobody would have noticed her slip back out of the cave and make her way back to the encampment – but she could not leave. She seemed to be drawn in her own nakedness towards the crowd. She no longer cared what they thought of her – her deformities, her secret. She wanted the Dark Priest to see her, to know that she knew their secrets too.

It was Adisa that recognized her standing on the periphery of the now full-on orgy.

“You … you have both cock and a cunt … like Ayida-Weddo … you are Her!? Her who is to be worshiped!”

As Adisa cried out in disbelief, others also looked on at Teresa and her deformities.

Teresa felt groggy and her vision was fuzzy and tunneling, but her libido continued to burn out of control. She felt herself lifted by unseen hands and brought forth to the center point of the orgy. All around her were naked young men, women, and children, all screaming and clambering to get a glimpse of the new arrival. Teresa felt the presence of the Dark Priest near her – she wanted to reach out for him, but was overcome with the intensity – her mind begin to spin out into blackness.

“You are a sign from the gods!” screamed Adisa.


To be continued …


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