nineteen
The Merciful
My brother steps over the long beam to reach me, lifting me gently into his arms. I cling to his neck as he leans down, lowering me to the cross. This time, my head is facing the bottom, and I tense when I feel the other two grip my ankles, their leather-clad fingers firm but gentle as they tug them flat. They each reach into their pockets, drawing out a rosary. They wrap them around my ankles and then the crossbeam. I ignore them so I won’t have to think about what they’re doing, what they’re seeing in the shadowy, candlelit sanctuary. Instead, I bury my face in Saint’s neck, clinging on and drawing every ounce of strength I can from him, stealing it like a succubus.
Finally he eases me back, taking my wrists in one hand and bringing them above my head. He’s not rough or forceful, his methodical, guiding touch reminding me that I could still pull away if I wanted. I want to, but I don’t do it. Instead, I let him draw me flush with the upright beam of the cross until I’m stretched along it, my legs bound open by the ankles, which are secured to the shorter cross section.
Saint uses the rougher rope that bound our wrists earlier, which is still wrapped around my left hand. He ties it securely around the cross, then around my other arm, so my hands are stretched above my head. Even though the incline is slight, I can feel blood start to travel toward my head, but I’m thankful it lets blood flow stay in my hands as well. When they all step back, I close my eyes, trying not to unleash the sobs that swell inside me when they all survey my nakedness like a specimen under a microscope.
“Let’s get some wine,” Heath says after a minute.
“Good idea,” Saint says, turning away without a second glance my way. Somehow, that crushes me even more than having my brother stand over my bare body, looking down at it as it waits like an offering. It seems wine is more appealing.
He moves behind the altar, to the back of the church where the priests break the bread for us and say the blessing. He retrieves a bottle of wine, opens it, and returns.
Angel takes it, lifts his mask, and takes a drink. “To corrupting our innocent little lamb,” he says, handing the bottle to Heath.
Heath pushes his mask on top of his head and takes a swig from the bottle before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Can we do body shots while we wait for the Master?”
“No,” Saint snaps, swiping the bottle. He drinks and then lets the mask fall back into place. My lips tremble around the beads, and I have to swallow past the slimy ache in my throat with effort. I know they can see, can tell I’m choking on my tears even if they haven’t fallen from my eyes yet. I wish they’d let me see their faces, that I could read my brother’s expression, see if he looks at me with disgust or desire, hunger or hatred. I want to see the gentle reassurance in Angel’s eyes again, to know I didn’t imagine it, but he’s too far away now, taking another drink of wine as they stand over me.
The only face I can see is the maniacal, eager face of the heathen among them, who looks feral at the sight of me bound and helpless to stop the corrupting revenge he might seek upon my untouched flesh.
“What do you think the Master will say?” Angel asks after a minute. “Think we did good?”
“We did fine,” Heath says. “But she’s fuckin weird now. The way she talks, those stupid shoes and clothes, the underwear… She looks like a nun. I’m surprised there wasn’t a chastity belt under there.”
“Too bad there wasn’t,” Saint grumbles.
“Look, even her pussy looks uptight,” Heath says, elbowing Angel in the ribs.
“Looks good to me,” Angel says, taking a drink of wine and licking his lips as he looks down between my legs. My thighs clench involuntarily, but I can’t move my knees more than a few inches towards each other.
“Nah, man, it’s like it shrank instead of swelling up all nice and plump the way I like,” Heath says, taking the bottle back.
“It’s cute,” Angel says. “I bet it’s tight too. Look like how small it is.”
“Does she even have lips? Where’s the rest of it? I like those big old meat curtains I can get lost in.”
“Maybe she’s got them tucked in.”
“In what?” Heath asks. “Those tiny baby lips couldn’t hold anything in. I bet it’s just a slit in her skin with a hole inside. Like a frog or a chicken or some shit.”
“It’s a cunt,” Saint says bluntly. “Who cares what it looks like? As long as you can rip a hole in it, you can fuck it.”
Heath rocks back on his heels. “I’m naming it McGonagall.”
“You’re fucking weird,” Saint snaps.
“It is small,” Angel agrees, peering down between my legs. “Do you think there’s even room for a clit in there?”
“I can’t tell,” Heath says, stepping forward and leaning down, resting his hands on his knees to inspect me closer.
“No,” I beg, my voice garbled by the rosary. “Please don’t look at me.” I shake my head back and forth so he’ll know, even if he can’t understand my words. I don’t want them to look, because then they’ll know. They’ll know that even being here, with them looking and not touching, when I should be shaking with terror, is making a different set of sensations roll through my body that has me squirming to do more than close my legs.
“Now, where’s the fun in that?” Heath asks with an unhinged grin.
“Don’t be shy,” Angel says, leaning down next to my tormentor. “Everyone likes to be admired. Let us see it get all red and juicy like it was on HAVOC night.”
I squeeze my eyes closed against the hot tears and silently pray.
“Are you sure that was her?” Saint asks. “Maybe the Master switched her out on the way back to the altar. No way that uptight little cunt squirted us in the face.”
Forgive me, Father…
“One way to find out,” Angel says, reaching out. My thighs clench so hard I feel my knee pop, but the beads on my ankles hold fast, digging into my skin.
For I have sinned…
Angel’s fingers make contact, and I gasp so loud the cross in my mouth nearly chokes me. He casually spreads my lips, his clinical observation making my skin prickle with heat and wetness.
Forgive me…
“Damn,” Heath says, palming himself through his black robe.
“Mmm,” Angel says through a groan. “I’m going to suck that pussy until she squirts in my mouth this time.”
Forgive—
“Look, it’s getting wet,” Heath crows, starting to laugh again. My face is so hot I think the tears will sizzle when they finally trickle down my temples and soak into my hairline.
Sin—
“Please,” I whimper.
“Don’t worry,” Angel says, flicking my clit lazily with his thumb. “We don’t bite.”
“Speak for yourself,” Heath says. “I want to see her bleed and hear her scream, and if I can’t fuck her tonight, I make no promises about biting.”
“God, I’m dying to taste her,” Angel says. “I’m salivating like a fucking dog here.”
Saint shoves him, knocking his hand from me. “Stop drooling on yourself at the thought of tonguing my sister’s cunt.”
“Not helping,” Angel groans, straightening and rubbing his thumb along his plump lower lip. “When is the master getting here? Maybe he’ll let me lick up the mess she’s making.”
“You are a dog,” Heath says, laughing and dancing around on his toes, the way he does when he can’t contain his energy.
“If wanting her pussy juice all over my face makes me a dog, then fuck yeah, I am,” Angel says. “I can smell how ready she is from here.”
In thought, word, and deed…
He leans down again, bracing his hands on my knees this time, and my whole body goes tense, but heat throbs in my core. He closes his eyes and inhales deep and slow, his nostrils flaring. Then he lets out a long, loud groan. “I’m going to fucking cum in my pants if he doesn’t hurry.”
“Get off her,” Saint says, shoving him aside again. “You’re not supposed to touch.”
“I can’t help it,” Angel protests. “I know she’s your little sister, but damn. She’s so pure. I can’t wait to defile her.”
I have not loved you with my whole heart…
“You’re just jealous because we get to touch and all you can do is watch,” Heath taunts my brother. “Unless you want to touch your sister’s juicy little pussy.”
“Shut up,” Saint growls.
Heath lets out a peel of laughter that echoes through the church again. “Body shots,” he yells, raising the wine bottle into the air. He stands over me, tilting it until a thin stream spills onto my belly. I convulse with a shiver as the cool liquid trickles down my skin, filling my bellybutton and running towards my breasts.
Heath cackles and bends over me. His warm, wet mouth latches onto the skin around my bellybutton, and he slurps loudly before flicking his tongue inside.
I cry out behind the rosary, and he sucks harder, dragging my skin into his mouth and sinking his teeth into the little roll of fat on my lower belly.
Hot tears pour down my temples faster, and my breath catches in an ugly, audible sob.
“That’s enough, Heath,” says a businesslike, echoing voice.
I startle, twisting around in desperation to see a tall man striding down the center aisle between the pews. He’s wearing black robes like the others, but his hands are bare, and his face is covered by the plague doctor mask I saw last time.
A shudder runs through my body, and my knees clench again, trying to close automatically. It’s bad enough that my friends have seen me, but this is a stranger.
The Master.
The one who mastered my body, who didn’t just do things to me, but who made me want it, made me lose control, and let everyone see as I did.
I whimper, tears coming faster, as he stops to dip his fingers in the holy water and cross himself. I know what those hands have done, the way they violated me, the way they worshipped me. I shiver harder, my whole body trembling now.
“And take that out of her mouth,” he says, climbing the steps and coming around to look down at me with the others. “She’s sacrificing her body for us, not her voice.”
“She was arguing,” Heath protests, replacing his mask and standing.
“Arguing?” asks the doctor, turning to me. “Why would she argue?”
“She can’t figure out what she wants,” Saint grumbles.
“If she doesn’t want to be here, why is she here?” asks the other man, crouching beside me and hooking his finger through the rosary in my mouth. He gently pulls it free, tugging the cross from between my lips. I flinch at the string of saliva that comes with it, but he ignores it and lowers the beads over my chin, letting them rest around my neck.
“The Lord is your shepherd,” he murmurs, stroking my cheek gently with his fingertips. “Thou shalt not fear.”
“Are you going to crucify me?” I ask, my voice trembling.
He draws back, his fingers stilling on my jawline. “Crucify you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Are you going to let them kill me like they did Eternity?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Saint says, turning and stalking away.
“It appears my pupils have not prepared you sufficiently,” the Master says, his fingers gently stroking down the side of my neck, making a shiver rush down my body, my skin prickling into goosebumps and my nipples hardening to sharp pebbles.
“Bring me the basin,” he says, and I see the white skull mask move through the shadows, away from me, through the veil of my tears.
The Master strokes my throat gently, then sets the cross on my necklace straight. “Our sacrifice does not give her life,” he says. “Though she sacrifices much for us. You will sacrifice yourself for our pleasure and perversion. For that, we consider you holy, a sacred vessel for our darkest desires. They will kneel before you in silent reverence while I bless this holy vessel that is to receive.”
Angel lowers himself to his knees beside the doctor carefully, the basin of holy water cradled in his arms.
“Let us begin,” the leader says.
Heath and Saint approach from the other side of the cross and after a pause, as if they’re reluctant to obey, kneel beside me on the left.
The Master dips his fingers into the holy water. “Your sacrifice is holy,” he murmurs, his voice echoing inside the mask, the beak lowered over me in the flickering candlelight. He smooths his thumb across my forehead, leaving a wet smear that prickles with cold. “Bless us with your sacrifice.”
“We thank you,” the other three murmur in unison.
“Bless us with your mouth,” the Master says, dipping his fingers into the holy water and smearing his thumb over my lips.
“We thank you,” the others echo, their voices a rumbling chorus that sends a shiver through me and settles into a throbbing ember in my core.
“Bless us with your body,” the Master says, his touch gentle but firm as he runs his wet palm over throat, my collarbones, my breasts.
My breath hitches, and I lose myself in the murmur of thanks this time. The same feeling I had when they bound me swells in me again, as if I’m being overtaken by holiness, as if I can feel God himself here with me in this place.
“Bless us with your belly and your womb,” the Master says, his fingertips spreading cold water over my skin, making it contract and tremble as he moves lower, toward the shameful coal that’s growing hotter and hotter as he approaches.
“We thank you,” echoes over the altar, the candles, the cross, the men.
“Please,” I whimper as the Master dips his fingers into the water again.
“Bless us with your sex,” he says, letting the holy water drip onto my mound.
“We thank you.” The deep chorus rumbles through me, vibrating me with the depth of the tone, the desire, the reverence.
I tense, squeezing my eyes closed and waiting. I can feel the cold drops trickle through my slit, and I squirm and shiver, wet heat pulsing between my thighs. I hear rustling and open my eyes to see the Master stand. He submerges both hands in the water, then takes my thighs in a firm grip, running a hand down the front of each thigh, leaving them glistening, the golden firelight flickering over my pale, wet skin. He reaches my knees, and I want to cry with relief and scream in frustration that he didn’t dive into my sinful flesh, remove the temptation coiling inside me like the snake in the Garden of Eden.
“Bless us with your thighs.”
“We thank you.”
“Bless us with your legs.”
“We thank you.”
“Bless us with your feet.”
“We thank you.”
I enter a trancelike state from the steady murmur of the voices, the chant like a prayer over my body. The Master bends to kiss the top of each of my feet, as if he worships the ground I walk on, as if I’m above even the man who commands this whole ritual.
“Your body is holy,” he murmurs, his hands moving slowly from my feet to my ankles. “The sacred desires of your flesh belong to your god.”
As he speaks, he moves higher, his fingers digging into my calves in a firm massage that makes pleasure ripple through my entire being.
“The sacred desires of our flesh belong to you.”
He massages up my thighs, which begin to tremble at his touch as his hands continue until they meet the slickness on my skin that’s not from the holy water, but from my most unholy urges. Just before he touches my center, he lifts his hands away. I stifle a cry of frustration, my hips jerking involuntarily in protest.
He dips his fingers into the bowl of holy water, then returns them to me. He spreads my sex and wets me thoroughly this time. I gasp as the cold liquid trickles down, blessed, holy water that should steam upon touching such a hot, unholy vessel. Squeezing my eyes closed in humiliation, I pray he can’t feel how wet I am already. I listen for a sizzle when the water meets my hot flesh, because the shame is burning me alive. But the only sound is a slick, wet sound as he coats me with the sacred water, sliding his fingers into my slit, through my folds, over my swollen bud.
“Your body is now ready to receive our sin, Mercy,” he murmurs. “Open yourself for us.”
“Please,” I whisper, tears trickling down my temples. He opens me, soaking my folds in the liquid again. The stroke of his fingers makes my whole body quake violently with need, with shame, with protest.
“May your body preserve your soul,” he murmurs in the same hushed, reverent tone a priest would use while administering communion.
The depth of humiliation is too much to bear.
“God is always with you, my lamb,” he murmurs, expertly leading me into a temptation I’ve wanted since the day I returned to Thorncrown, when I sat in the booth and heard Father Salvatore’s smoky, rich voice, felt the things it did to me while I confessed my darkest sins. “I am your god now. Give yourself to god, and he will show you the way.”
I feel my flesh responding to his touch, coating his fingers with a hotter, thicker liquid as I think about the man behind the screen in the confession booth. I ignite with a shame so hot I think I’ll combust. The humiliation is too deep, too horrible, to endure. A sob rips from me, wracking my whole body as he moves lower, holding open the entrance to my body. The others lean in to see, ignoring the ugly sounds tearing from my throat.
“These men worship at your sacred altar,” he murmurs. “Take them into your body now.”
I whimper as the others watch him expose me fully.
“Saint,” he says quietly.
“Me?” my brother asks. “I can’t. She’s my sister.”
“It is your desire.”
There’s a long pause, while tears pour from my eyes, the knife of pain in my chest rendering me speechless. He’s not my god. He’s not a comfort, a shepherd, or a father I’ve confessed my sins to, an instrument of God. He’s a sinner like the others, one who worships whatever gods or devils they do—the leader of the Hellhounds.
Suddenly, a sharp pain stabs through me as my brother roughly drives a finger to the hilt inside me. A shriek tears from my lips at the shock and pain, my whole body going rigid as I jerk at my bonds.
“Oh relax,” Saint snaps. “It’s just a finger.”
“Let him in,” the leader says, gently stroking the back of his fingers down the side of my breast. Then he lifts his head to give orders to my brother. “Give her communion.”
Saint thrusts his finger into me again, then draws it out. In the flickering firelight, I can see it slicked with red blood.
“The blood of the lamb,” the Master says with deep reverence. “Poured out for you.”
Saint lowers his finger to my trembling lips, pushing it inside.
“Suck,” the Master commands.
I obey automatically, the response programmed into me after years of being told to kneel, to open my mouth, to take communion. I can taste the sweet, iron tang of my blood spread over my tongue, the one I’ve tasted so many times, and I suck harder, latching onto the familiar, comforting flavor of my own body that has anchored me so often, reminded me I’m alive even when she’s gone, when I’m gone to everyone I love.
Saint draws a sharp breath, and my eyes search for his, but I can’t find them behind the dark mask. The throbbing ache he left inside me returns harder than ever, like a scream waiting to be unleashed.
“Such a pure little thing,” the Master says. “Empty your sins into her.”
I let out a muffled protest, and Saint’s finger hits the back of my throat, making me gag. At the same moment, a finger plunges deep into my core. I choke out another cry, and my hips jerk up, my thighs straining as Heath thrusts his finger in and out of my slick opening. He groans, reaching under the black robe and fumbling himself out. His cock stands up straight and smooth, proudly filling his hand as he begins to pump over his shaft to the pierced tip.
My mouth closes around Saint’s finger just in time to hold back a moan of pleasure. It comes out as a hum around his finger, and he curses quietly, his other hand moving to fondle my breast. He tugs at my nipple, his breathing fast and ragged in the sudden silence.
“Make those sweet sounds for me again,” Heath says, his voice tormented with desire. His finger keeps pumping into me while his other hand moves up and down his length, tugging at it with erratic, desperate strokes.
“Can I taste her?” Angel asks, lifting his mask onto the top of his head. He licks his lips and steps forward, having set the bowl of holy water aside. He starts to lean down, and I try to spit out Saint’s finger to protest, but he thrusts it into my throat, making me gag.
Heath groans, thrusting harder into the aching need inside me.
The Master clamps a hand on Angel’s shoulder. “It’s not time for communion,” he says. “You may touch the entrance to her heaven, the same as your brothers.”
Angel groans, but he straightens and steps to my hip, across from Heath. “Let me in.”
“No fucking way,” Heath says, his finger moving faster and faster, making wet sounds as he drags it out and stabs back into my slickness. “I’m going to cum all over her, just like I did before.”
“Who said anything about your turn being over?” Angel asks with a wicked grin. “There’s room for two. I’m going in with you, Uncle.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll cum on you instead,” Heath warns with a maniacal grin.
Angel’s finger nudges against my entrance, and I tense up, gasping around Saint’s finger.
“God, she’s so tight,” Heath moans, dropping his head back.
“Just relax and let me in,” Angel coaxes me, palming my pussy and rubbing the heel of his hand against my clit, sending a shudder of pleasure through me. He strains against my entrance, finally breaching it and bringing another gasp from me. I can feel the stretch as he opens me wider, deeper. Unlike Heath, who’s still stabbing hard and fast, he works his finger in slowly, moaning with pleasure when he has it buried knuckle-deep inside me. He stills, letting Heath’s finger slide against his in the blood and slickness of my flesh.
“Join your brothers in preparing the sacrifice,” the Master says to Saint.
My brother pauses as if to argue, but he thinks better of it and joins them, forcing his finger into me with theirs. I cry out in pain at the stretch, but he just thrusts deeper, driving his finger in with Angel’s and Heath’s. They all still for a second, their fingers straining inside me to tight I feel like I’m going to tear open.
“Please,” I gasp out. “You’re hurting me.”
“And we’re not going to stop, so you might as well get used to it,” Heath says, drawing his finger back. All three fingers recede, then thrust deep inside me again. I cry out, my hips writhing to get away.
Saint chuckles behind his mask. “That’s right,” he says. “You might as well cry about it now, because there’s nothing you can do about it. This pussy is ours now, and we’re going to use it day and night, whenever we want to, until it’s as worthless as your tears.”
The Master stands over us, coating the white marble statue of the Virgin Mary with holy oil. “Is she ready?”
“Not yet,” Angel growls, stroking his thumb across the swollen bud of my clit. “God, look how pretty she looks right now, with all of our fingers stretching her open. Look at her pretty little clit. I want to taste her so bad.”
“I want to sink my teeth into it,” Heath says, snapping his teeth so I can hear them clamp together. “This prude’s little cunt looked so uninviting, but look at it all stretched out like a slut’s now. Just needed a good gangbang to teach her its purpose.”
“Fuck,” Angel groans. “We’re ready, Master.”
The Master moves closer, carefully stepping over the cross until he’s straddling the upright beam right between my legs, towering over me.
I whimper at his nearness, the alien face with the hooked beak pointing down at me while he watches the three men wrecking me with their fingers.
“Saint?” he says.
“Yes, Master,” my brother says. “I’ll fuck up her pussy with them, but she’s not getting anything from me. But you can have it to seal the bond.”
“Very well,” the Master says. “Pass me the chalice.”
The three slide their fingers from me, and I gasp as the cool air sweeps over my fevered and tormented sex.
Saint passes the Master a brass chalice, and my entire being goes aflame when I realize it’s the one we take real communion from at mass. I whimper as he lowers it between my thighs, dragging it up against my slick flesh. My whole body quakes as he does it again, then one more time, before raising it in both hands. “The blood of the lamb, poured out for you.”
The three others bow their heads, and then Angel takes Saint’s hand and slides his bloody finger into his mouth. He moans and closes his eyes, sucking greedily. My core throbs dully, and I stare, transfixed, at his tongue swiping and curling around my brother’s finger.
My attention is jerked back when a slick finger circles my clit. My gaze flies to the Master, who is stroking my clit with the oil he used on the small statue. He’s holding it in one hand, and I have one moment of shocked horror to register what he’s about to do before he lowers it between my thighs.
“The virgin flesh yields to our temptation,” he says, pushing the cold, marble head firmly to my entrance. “With this holy relic, we open you to the sins of the flesh.”
“What are you doing?” I shriek as I feel the unyielding material strain against my protesting flesh.
“That’s right, little sister,” Saint taunts. “She’s the only virgin who will be leaving here tonight. Cry about it if it helps, but you’re taking every inch.”
The Master holds the object firmly and pushes it slowly inside me. The hard, oiled statue enters me, and I buck and thrash, yanking at my ankles in hopes of breaking the rosaries holding them to the cross. Bracing the base against his hips, the Master forces the cold, ridged stone deeper, further than their fingers went, opening me fully until the statue of the Virgin Mary is buried to the hilt inside me.