Faith and Temptation

Prayers of Purity

Allison squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head, willing her faith to be stronger than her desires. She knew her weakness, but there she knelt, beside the bed, hands clasped tight in prayer. “Jesus, keep me pure,” she whispered, soft and desperate. The small, modest room surrounded her, the plain white of the walls and bedspread offering no distraction, but still she struggled to stay focused. Her mind drifted, beyond her control, to thoughts of rough, forceful hands grabbing at her incredible round ass, of her skirts hiked high, and her panties pulled low. A shameful gasp escaped her lips, and she reached up to touch the cross at her throat. “Jesus,” she whispered again, “keep me pure.” Her prayer fought for space among sinful visions of her small, tight hole being violated, filled with something other than God’s love.

The modesty of the bedroom was supposed to keep her grounded. No ornate details on the furniture to tempt her into pride. No television to draw her attention from faith. Even the flowers on the nightstand were muted in color and scent, nothing showy or flamboyant. She had decorated it herself when she moved away from home, her first year out on her own. Every simple detail should have focused her on her pious life, on remaining steadfast in the eyes of the Lord. But here she was, just like at home, full of sinful thoughts, kneeling on the plain wood floor beside her simple twin bed, desperately trying to avoid the shameful desires that made her feel so helpless, so weak, so unlike the pure, faithful Christian girl she longed to be.

She knew what she wanted, deep inside, even as she fought it with prayer. The images of those strong hands on her body filled her mind without any help at all, while she struggled to form each word of the Lord’s Prayer in her thoughts. The images played so vividly, almost real. She could practically feel the warmth and strength of those hands holding her still, forcing her small, pliant body to accept every groping, grabbing touch. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, opening her blue eyes and seeing the room around her. Even with no distractions, she was failing. She was falling so far away from God. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate.

As soon as she closed them, the sinful visions started again. The hands lifted the hem of her skirt, tugged down her modest white panties. She couldn’t keep her breath from catching at the thought, shame and longing rushing through her in equal measure. A soft moan slipped past her lips, barely audible, as she lost herself in the thoughts, the fantasy. It didn’t even matter whose hands they were, she thought. All that mattered was that they took control of her body, left her no chance to escape. She wondered if maybe, just maybe, she should stop fighting it, stop pretending she could be the faithful girl everyone expected. No, she thought suddenly. I have to try. She was on her knees, wasn’t she? God would know that she was trying.

“Why can’t I be stronger?” she said out loud. Her voice broke the silence around her, made her aware of how small the room was, how close she was to the bed and the prayer and the struggle and the temptation. Her body was already responding, her nipples hardening against the soft fabric of her simple white bra, a shiver running down her spine. Her whole petite body was shaking, even though she stayed there, on her knees, fighting it. Why does it feel so good? Her internal voice sounded desperate, even to her own ears, a deep ache spreading through her as she struggled. She shifted on her knees, trying to resist her own body’s urges. She wouldn’t touch herself. Not yet.

God’s love was supposed to be enough for her, she thought. She remembered her mother telling her so. But it wasn’t, not anymore, not now that she was on her own, away from the watchful eyes and constant reminders of her religious family. She heard her mother’s voice, lecturing her on the dangers of sinful thoughts, how any sexual desire was slutty and sinful, dirty, unless she was married. And even then, she remembered being told, even then it wasn’t supposed to be pleasurable, especially not for the woman. A wife was supposed to endure, not enjoy. Then why do I love this? She nearly cried out, caught up in the battle inside her.

Allison thought about how it must look, to God, her on her knees like this, full of desire while pretending to pray. He had to be able to see these thoughts, these sinful, shameful urges. How could she be so weak? Her breath was coming in short gasps as she struggled against the images in her mind. She knew what her body wanted, she knew the pleasures it was built for, even as her faith told her they were wrong. She felt lightheaded with the guilt of it all, her flesh winning out over her religion. She reached up again to touch the small silver cross at her throat, her simple blonde ponytail swinging forward over her shoulder.

She hated the way her body seemed to take control. She hated the desire and longing that came over her at the slightest hint of attention. She hated the way her hips rocked slightly when a man looked at her with that greedy, hungry expression. But most of all, she hated how much pleasure it brought her. “Jesus, keep me pure,” she whispered again, trying to focus on her prayer as the words were drowned out by sinful, invasive thoughts. Please, Jesus, please. She felt dizzy from wanting so much to be good, and from wanting so much to give in.

Her small frame didn’t stop men from looking at her. It never had, not since she was old enough to know what those looks meant. At least you have your petite figure to help you stay decent, she heard her mother say, a memory from so many years ago, But oh, that bottom of yours. Her incredible round ass drew attention no matter what she did, no matter how modest her dresses were. She couldn’t hide it, no matter how hard she tried. She knew, from the way they looked at her, what every man wanted from her. Every single one.

“Please, Jesus, help me fight this,” she whispered again. The small room closed in around her, her traitorous body tingling as she stayed there, trembling and trying so hard to pray. She reached up and touched the cross at her throat again, then curled into herself, forehead against her clasped hands. The words of her prayers became more desperate, breathless. “Keep me pure,” she whispered again, “please.” The sinful thoughts were everywhere, all around her, filling her even as she tried so hard to empty herself of them. “Keep me pure,” she whispered, feeling their grip on her body.

***

The stained glass glowed in bright, accusing colors. Allison remembered them well. She was 18 when it happened, alone after Sunday service, the sanctuary empty except for the usher. He came up from behind as she knelt in prayer. The long rows of wooden pews were silent, and so was she, when he grabbed her incredible round ass and squeezed. “Look at you,” he had said. “You’re nothing but a tease, aren’t you?” She was too shocked to speak, at first, as his hands found her. They had never let her be. They had never let her go.

She remembered that she had stayed after the service to pray for forgiveness. Her eyes had been closed in devotion, the altar stretching before her. She didn’t know he was there, the lean man in his suit. The silence was shattered by her startled gasp as he found her, hands grabbing, fingers probing, nothing but force and invasion. She thought, for a moment, that God himself must be testing her, giving her the struggle she so feared and desired. She hated the flush of excitement that rose in her, how her body reacted as it did, as it always did, giving in even when she begged it to stop. Even the sanctuary, sacred and empty, couldn’t save her from the sinful urges, or from the strong hands that left her trembling with fear and unexpected need.

“Look at you,” he had said again, his fingers working into the soft flesh of her backside. “Kneeling there like a good girl.” She wasn’t a good girl, she knew, not deep down. Maybe not ever. Not if this was what she loved. The usher had already gotten her weak, already brought out the shameful longing she tried so hard to keep hidden. “I know what you want, Allison,” he said. His grip was firm, sending thrills of pleasure through her despite how desperately she fought against them. “I can see it on your face,” he said, and she was terrified that he could. How could he not see the desire, when she could feel it burning, unholy and impossible to stop?

His hands moved faster than her thoughts. They pulled her up, turned her around, pushed her back down. She was suddenly on her stomach, draped over the back of the pew, her arms pinned under her. She remembered the hardness of the wood against her ribs, the sound of her own whimper echoing through the empty church. She didn’t dare call out, even if she wanted to. A slut like her didn’t need saving. “You’re nothing but a tease, aren’t you?” he said again, his voice as strong as his grip. His rough, unforgiving touch held her in place as she gasped, too shocked to struggle, too shocked to speak.

It was happening so fast. The force of it, the urgency, made it impossible for her to protest, to say anything except the sinful desires that ran through her head, faster than the blood ran through her trembling, weak body. “Every Sunday, tempting me,” the usher said, sounding angry, like he blamed her for how much he needed to fill her. “It’s like you’ve been begging for this.” His voice dropped low, a rough whisper against her ear. “You know you have.” She felt the truth of it in her flesh, as much as she hated to admit it. His hands, still on her, moved her into place. “Don’t bother denying it,” he said, “you love being grabbed like this.”

He had her there, bent and trapped, her incredible round ass so shamefully exposed. He let go of her long enough to lift her skirt, push it up over her hips. Allison’s face burned with humiliation and guilty pleasure as she heard the material rustle, felt the air on her bare skin. She heard his breath quicken as he saw how wet she was already, and she remembered the shiver that ran through her at the sound. The thrill of fear. The heat of arousal. “Please,” she said, more a moan than a cry for help. She didn’t even know what she was asking for. Her desire fought with her shame, and she hated herself for the way she wanted him to keep going, keep going.

“You dirty girl,” he said. His words hurt her, but the pain was nothing compared to the grip he took on her panties, tugging them down, letting them hang around her thighs as she hung, helpless and pinned, over the hard wooden pew. The pale flesh of her round ass was exposed, and it looked obscene, like she imagined a cheap whore would look, and that only made her body react more. His hand, free of any restraint now, pressed between her legs, hard fingers finding their way into her wet, guilty flesh. She gasped and shuddered at the shock of it, her sinful body growing slicker and needier with every rough touch, even as she tried to keep the desire at bay.

“You’re going to take this,” he said, pulling away from her just long enough to unbutton his pants. The anticipation was unbearable, as much as the pleasure and the pain. “Just relax,” he said, but she was shaking, almost crying, she needed it so badly. Her hips moved of their own accord, eager to take what she hated herself for wanting, pushing back against him and drawing a breathy moan from his lips. He grabbed her by the waist, roughly, painfully, and she felt the thick, warm tip of him pushing against her. She tensed, instinctively, but the flood of shame and arousal only increased.

He moved too fast for her. He was inside her, all the way, his long, thick length forcing its way into her ass. The pain was so intense, at first, that she thought she might pass out. Her whimper was broken and needy. She felt him stretch her, fill her, all at once. He didn’t give her any chance to catch her breath, any time to adjust to the agony of being taken this way, with no warning. His hands on her hips, his cock driving deep inside her, sending blinding flashes of pain through her that gave way to bursts of unbelievable pleasure. Her gasps of pain turned to moans of need as her whole body gave in. Her jaw went slack, her thoughts went blank, and there was only the sensation of him in her, using her, fucking her like she was made for it, like she needed it more than anything.

He grunted, thrusting deeper and faster, ignoring her choked whimper of surprise as her body went wild beneath him. “You’re a dirty girl,” he said, his voice rough and strained as he pounded into her tight hole. “You love this, don’t you?” Her body told her that she did, even if her faith and her shame tried to say otherwise. He let out a ragged groan and pulled her hard against him. She felt him explode inside her, hot and endless, pushing her over the edge and taking her with him. The orgasm was overwhelming, shaking her from the inside out, taking everything and leaving nothing but his voice in her ears and his cum in her ass. “Say it,” he said, and she hated how loud her cry was, how raw and real her body’s answer had been.

Then he was gone. Just like that, he was gone. The silence of the empty church surrounded her as she tried to pull herself together. She could feel the warm, sticky wetness between her thighs as she reached down, shakily, and pulled her panties back up over her hips. They were soaked with him, with her, with everything. She felt dizzy, trying to understand, trying to comprehend, trying to figure out how it could feel so wrong and so wonderful, so shameful and so exactly what she wanted. She was sore and stretched and incredibly, unbelievably satisfied.

The room was silent as she adjusted her skirt and slowly sank to her knees. She sobbed into her hands, unsure if she was crying in shame, in relief, or in disappointment that he had left her, just like everyone else did, just like she always knew they would. He didn’t even say goodbye, and the silence of the empty sanctuary felt louder than her own ragged breath, louder than her own gasping sobs. She sat back, on her heels, tears running down her cheeks, the unspeakable feeling of warmth and fullness still deep inside her. “I’m not a slut!” she said, more to herself than anyone else, but she could hear the lie in her own voice.

***

The memory left her trembling. She was 18, and alone, and exposed, and helpless, and it had been so good. Allison sat on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, her whole body tingling with the aftershocks of shameful pleasure and searing guilt. Her breath came quick, and her hand moved quicker, trailing down the flat expanse of her stomach, past the hem of her modest skirt, to the desperate heat between her legs. She gasped at her own boldness, her own weakness, her own need. “Why does it feel so good?” she whispered, more a moan than a question.

Her fingers, trembling, drifted down and stopped at the elastic waistband of her panties. She could feel the heat there, her body responding even to the lightest touch, but her shame and her faith fought against it. She yanked her hand back, up, away from the shameful place it wanted so much to be. She was supposed to be a good Christian girl, supposed to resist these urges that left her feeling like nothing but a worthless, filthy whore. She felt dizzy with the guilt of it, of wanting so much to give in and feel that incredible rush, that perfect, sinful pleasure again. She tried to pray, but her words were lost in a flood of unholy desire.

“Please, God, give me strength,” she whispered, then gasped as her hand moved back down, touching herself through the thin material of her underwear. She was so wet, she could feel it even there, and she closed her eyes tight, but the images were waiting. The hands. The force. The absolute loss of control. Her shame and her longing pushed against each other until there was no space left for anything else. Not even God. The memory of that day, of that moment, the helpless surrender and intense, consuming need, all left her aching for it. Please, God, please. She opened her eyes, a wild, desperate look that held nothing of faith or strength.

It had awakened something inside her, the memory of the usher, the memory of his hands, the memory of the way she could give in and feel like she was losing everything, even as she gained the one thing she craved more than anything else. She bit her lip, already flushed and breathless, even from just the thought of it. Her fingers pressed against the cotton panties again, circling the warm wetness. She thought of him bending her over the pew, how wrong it was, how wonderful, how she needed it to happen again. It was no wonder, she thought, that God had abandoned her. She was worthless. She was the worst kind of slut.

“Why can’t I stop this?” she moaned, almost crying as she moved her hips against her fingers. God had to be able to see how awful she was, how needy and helpless and worthless she was. Nothing but a sinful girl full of desires that were bigger than her faith. How can He love me when I’m like this? She wanted to be good, wanted to be pure, but even the thought of trying to resist was nothing compared to the thought of being taken again, bent over and filled. She shifted her legs, parting them slightly, hating herself more and more with every inch.

The memory felt more real to her than the plain white walls and simple bedspread. More real than God’s love. More real than anything, and she gave in, feeling the heat and wetness of herself as her fingers slid under the elastic, under the waistband, under every pretense she ever had of being anything but a dirty, shameful whore. She was soaked, her body eager and willing despite her thoughts and prayers. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her bra, and she rocked against her hand, lost in the desire and the pleasure and the uncontrollable urge to give herself over to it all.

“I’m such a slut,” she thought, feeling the truth of it in her trembling, needy body. She couldn’t even pretend that God might forgive her. She couldn’t even pretend that she wanted Him to. Not with how good it felt. Not with how her whole body reacted, shaking, slick, and more eager than any good girl should ever be. She lay back, pulling her legs up, thighs pressed together, one hand between them, the other grabbing the headboard like she could keep herself from drifting away. “I’m such a slut,” she said, letting the words echo, sinful and perfect, in her ears.

Her fingers slipped easily inside, finding her slick and ready, finding her body’s confession more real and honest than any prayer she’d ever made. “Oh, God,” she moaned, moving harder, faster, imagining his hands, his voice, his cock. The thought of being used, of being helpless, of being filled and left alone again made her push against her fingers, a deep ache rising inside her, ready to explode, ready to break, ready to make her whole and ruin her all at once. Her breath was quick and shallow, her whole petite frame trembling as she gave in.

“Help me, Jesus,” she thought, almost laughing at how little she meant it, how much she didn’t care. Her body wanted this, her mind wanted this, and God’s love was a distant memory compared to the way she came, helpless and needy and already wanting more, fingers soaked, heart racing, heat and longing still deep inside her. She imagined the rough hands on her, imagined the force and strength of a man who knew how much she craved it, how much she would let him do. She tried to pray for strength, for purity, but her own desperate cry drowned out every word, every thought.

“I’m just a hole,” she thought, her hands moving as fast as her hips, out of control, spiraling into another orgasm that filled her and emptied her all at once. She could hardly breathe, hardly think, hardly stop from going again and again, taking herself like the worthless, unholy girl she knew she was. Nothing left but pleasure and shame. She opened her eyes, wide and wild, tears of release and defeat streaming down her cheeks.

She was nothing but a dirty, sinful girl. She had to admit it, if only to herself, if only to the God who would never look at her again. She was curled into a ball, still shaking, still so full of longing and emptiness. “I’m such a slut,” she whispered again, barely more than a breath, and she could almost hear God leaving her, just like everyone else did, just like everyone else would. “I’m such a slut,” she said, over and over, until the tears took her words and turned them into something more. Until the tears took everything, and turned it into something less.

Park Violation

Her heels clicked softly as Allison Hayes walked past a small playground, crowded with laughing children and chatty, inattentive mothers. She glanced around, feeling eyes on her as she moved along the paved path, but it was just the usual suspects: several families, an elderly couple feeding the ducks, a young woman in headphones sitting on a bench. Nobody suspicious, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling. Her long, modest skirt fluttered in the warm breeze, and she clutched her purse tighter against the simple cotton of her plain blouse. The man was gone, the one she’d noticed watching her earlier, but the sensation lingered. She knew it was God, seeing her shameful thoughts. He’d been watching, too. “Men are vile,” she thought to herself, but the thought turned in her mind like a fallen leaf. “I’m vile,” it concluded, and she hated herself a little bit more.

A blonde strand of hair slipped from her ponytail and tickled her cheek as she walked. She was a good Christian girl. Or she was supposed to be. She would get there if she just tried hard enough, prayed hard enough, resisted hard enough. That was why she was at the park, why she was spending the afternoon alone and talking to God. She’d spent enough time with other people. With men. Enough time letting them lead her astray and make her believe it was her own fault. Allison needed time to think, and maybe this time, she wouldn’t succumb to her body’s traitorous urges. Maybe this time, she’d walk past them without thinking.

Maybe, she’d even made it that far already. Maybe he was gone. Her faith wasn’t the only thing he was testing. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said under her breath, a whispered prayer. She turned to check the bench, just to be sure, just to assure herself she was safe.

And that was when she saw him.

A big, stocky man, wearing a hoodie and torn jeans. He had to be at least thirty-five. Maybe older. Allison didn’t get a good look, didn’t want to, but she felt his eyes linger on her body as she passed. “Oh God, please,” she thought, but she wasn’t sure if it was a prayer to save her from his attention or a plea to receive it. She turned her head quickly away, pretending she hadn’t noticed him, pretending she hadn’t seen the desire in his gaze or the dark stubble shadowing his hard jaw. Her pulse quickened, and she cursed herself for her own weakness. “Men are vile,” she thought again. “And I’m just as vile for wanting them.”

She needed to get away, get away from him before she did something stupid, something that proved her self-loathing right. Allison walked faster, quickening her pace as her sensible shoes clicked against the paved path.

She felt the chill of panic despite the warm spring sun on her bare arms, felt her face burn with something else. The man was behind her, close enough to grab her. Close enough to touch her. Close enough to see her weakness. She glanced around, but there were still too many people, too many children and young mothers. She couldn’t make a scene. Couldn’t let them see her shame.

So Allison kept walking. Her small hands clutched her purse tightly against the ruffles of her modest, blue blouse. She could feel the fabric dampen beneath her arm, feel her breathing grow shallow and urgent. The way it grew whenever she knew she was going to lose.

Allison turned down another path, heading away from the playground and further into the park. She was trapped. She was liberated. She’d finally been spotted by someone, and he was following her. His heavy steps echoed on the concrete, then grew louder as they shifted to the gravel of a tree-lined path. She could hear him, knew he was getting closer. Knew that if she turned to look, her knees would weaken and her faith would crumble.

Maybe she wanted it to.

“Oh God,” she thought, “Please don’t let him.”

But what was she asking for? What was she really asking? Her heart pounded as she walked faster, faster, finally running. His steps behind her quickened. She knew she couldn’t run from this. Not forever. She’d tried, and God had seen the whore inside her.

The path curved and opened up again, the bright sun blinding her for an instant, and she was sure that he was gone. That she was safe. Her pulse was a roar inside her head, a roar of relief. A roar of disappointment.

But it stopped short as a heavy hand grabbed her from behind, grabbed her ass, squeezing it through her thin skirt and shoving her forward. Her bag flew from her hand.

“Nice ass, slut,” she heard him growl.

“Please, don’t,” Allison gasped, but she knew it was useless. Her face flushed crimson, and her mind fogged as the familiar, terrifying, vile feeling spread through her. The feeling of not having to fight anymore, the feeling of her body knowing what it needed even as her brain screamed, “No.” Her skin felt electric where he touched her, and the pulsing sensation deep inside her spread like wildfire through her belly. Her pussy felt hot, wet. Her jaw went slack.

Allison’s breathing quickened with the dampening heat between her legs. Her knees weakened. The stranger’s breath was warm against her ear as he pawed her harder, pressing his entire body against hers now. His cock was like iron, an insistent presence even through his jeans and her cotton panties. She knew it would be different soon.

“Oh God,” she thought, “I want this.” She knew she was going to hell.

The man’s hands moved up her sides and then back down, pulling her against him as he grunted with each movement. She struggled, but she wasn’t trying hard enough. Wasn’t trying at all. She moaned instead, even though she didn’t want to. Even though she shouldn’t.

“Get off me,” Allison said, but her voice trembled, thin and unconvincing.

She pushed against him, hating herself for not pushing harder, but he was stronger. She needed him to be. Needed him to be as vile as she was. Her strength ebbed as her arousal took over, as his grip on her tightened. She was a ragdoll, limp in his cruel arms, even as she kicked feebly at him.

“I knew it,” he said, “Knew you wanted it.”

“No,” Allison moaned. “Yes.”

Her entire body shuddered, anticipation making her soft. “Please stop,” she told him. “Please, God, don’t.” She felt her surrender as he pushed his hips forward, the hard promise of his thick cock pressing between her cheeks. The touch of it drove away all her resistance, all her piety, all her ability to fight. The world was slipping away, and she was finally, utterly free.

The bench appeared in front of her as he spun her, twisting the straps of her purse as it lay on the path.

She stumbled forward, her knees hitting the seat, then a large, rough hand planted itself between her shoulder blades, holding her in place. Her skirt flipped up as the man moved behind her. She could feel everything now, the warmth of the sun on her back, the obscene wetness of her pussy. She was lost.

Allison Hayes was a slut, and she loved it.

***

“Don’t stop, please,” she heard herself say. “Please don’t stop.” The world spun as he bent her over a park bench. Allison knew she was lost. She was a whore. She was a slut. She was the vile thing she most feared, and the wetness between her legs proved it. Her faith was just a memory now, a passing thought. “No,” she said, but the words barely escaped her lips. “Yes,” she moaned, feeling the surrender burn inside her. The man shoved her down hard and forced her legs apart. His hands felt like magic on her skin. Rough, demanding magic. She didn’t want it to end, and the dampening heat between her legs told her it wouldn’t. Not soon. She would have this thick cock before she was finished. The stranger would fuck her, and she would love it.

Allison felt her pulse beat out of control, felt her breath catch in her throat as she spread herself wide, her fingers tight around the edge of the wooden seat. Her soaked panties betrayed her better than her words did, and he knew. They both knew. He’d have his way with her, and that was exactly what she wanted. What she needed. He pulled her skirt up higher, tucking it into the back of her blouse, his grip sure and strong on her petite, writhing body. She whimpered as her exposed skin felt the sunlight, the sudden rush of freedom, the shame of having it all on display. The shame made it hotter, and she knew she wouldn’t have to fight much longer.

His strong hands roamed her small frame, feeling her yield beneath him, letting her know he was the one in control. Her cries of “No” were only a veneer over her desire, as thin as the cotton panties that clung to her and showed him how desperate she was, how filthy she was, how she was only resisting to make it hotter, to make it more sinful. They were nothing more than a soaked pretense. He tugged them down, a sudden, rough motion that left her damp and exposed. That left her ready.

Allison gasped as the cool air hit her pussy, gasped louder as she felt him spit on his fingers. He grabbed her hips, hard and demanding, and she shivered at his touch. Her body melted. Her mind didn’t matter anymore.

Then his fingers were inside her, wet and rough. He prepared her with swift, urgent motions that made her legs go weak, that sent shockwaves through her body. That made her press herself back against him, feeling how warm and wet she was. How sinful she was. She pushed harder against his hand, arching her back and feeling her blouse strain against her breasts. She’d given up. She’d surrendered. She’d won the thing she wanted most, the thing she wanted to be given. Taken. Her whole body vibrated as the first small orgasm rocked through her.

He felt it. She knew he felt it. “Tight little ass,” he grunted, “I’m gonna fuck it hard.”

“Please,” she moaned, “Please, oh God, please.”

The words hit her harder than his hands did. The shame and desire took her in the same moment, took her together, and she loved it more than anything. Allison’s cries grew louder, grew urgent and hoarse, the words barely more than a breath.

The man’s cock throbbed against her, pressed between her cheeks as he tore her open with his fingers. “Fuck it hard,” she begged. “Please fuck it hard.”

Then he did.

Allison Hayes felt her body split in two, felt her mind melt away as the man rammed himself into her. The pain was sharp, exquisite. The pressure, brutal. The thickness of his length made her pussy throb, made her entire being stretch to accommodate it, made her vision blur.

It was everything she needed. Everything she was. The wet sound of his cock pounding inside her filled her ears, filled her world. She didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel, didn’t have to be anything other than pure sensation. Pure, filthy sensation. She wanted to die, and it would have been perfect.

He held her hips as he rammed into her again, harder this time, faster this time, the first orgasm building. Then the second. It was better than her fantasies, better than she deserved. Allison cried out, loud enough for everyone in the park to hear, but there was nobody. Nobody but the stranger, and he knew how much she loved it. Knew she was just a slutty girl who needed a rough fuck. She was a Christian in name only, in thought only, and her thoughts were nothing. Her body was everything.

“Oh God,” she moaned, “Oh God, it hurts.” But she didn’t want him to stop. Didn’t want him to leave her the way the others did.

The thrusting length inside her proved he wouldn’t, proved that it wasn’t just the empty promise of her faith. She was crying. The tears in her eyes became tears of ecstasy. Tears of submission. The mix of pain and pleasure surged through her as she took him deeper. Her whole body trembled as she pressed her face against the wooden bench, her mouth open, her whimpers trailing off into a low, shaking moan.

The world was white-hot.

Gone.

The stranger pushed her legs apart, further apart, as he thrust in, as he drove her ass raw. The pleasure was so intense that she didn’t even have to move, didn’t even have to beg anymore. But she did. She did because she loved it, because the begging made it hotter, because the begging was all she could do. Her knuckles were white against the bench as he slammed into her.

“More,” she heard herself moan, “More, please.”

It came from somewhere deep inside her, some awful, vile place she didn’t want to admit was there. It came with the orgasms, one after another, faster, harder, until she lost count, until it didn’t matter. Until the only thing that mattered was his thick cock driving in and out of her.

The whole world melted away, and there was nothing but the brutal sensation of him fucking her ass, nothing but her muscles tightening as she came and came, nothing but the shameful need overtaking her. She heard his breathing grow faster, the man’s grunts becoming ragged. Her gasps and moans were barely human. She was pure pleasure now, pure animal need. Her hands ached from gripping the bench. Her voice was raw, hoarse, a low, wordless sound. “Oh God,” she moaned, “Oh God.”

Allison’s mind was empty.

She was nothing but submission.

She was nothing but sensation.

And then she was nothing at all.

The vile thing inside her burst as he fucked her harder. Harder. Harder. And then his cock exploded, filling her as his whole body shook. The stranger groaned, a deep, guttural sound as he came inside her, as he emptied himself into her stretched, quivering, welcoming hole.

He stayed inside her until the last violent thrust, and she moaned one final, breathless, “Oh God,” as the cum leaked down her thighs.

Allison was a filthy girl, and she loved it more than anything.

***

The vile thing inside her burst, and she felt the stranger cumming as hard as she was. She was a filthy girl, and she loved it more than anything. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Her mind spun and faded to black as the man finished. He pulled himself from her sore, spent hole, his grip loosening on her as she slumped forward, her chest heaving. Allison stayed bent over the bench for what felt like an eternity. What felt like the best thing in the world. She thought of nothing, just the beautiful, obliterating blankness of her submission, the nothing she loved more than anything. Finally, she straightened up, her muscles weak and aching. Her hands shook as she pulled up her panties, cum leaking from her ass and down her legs. Tears leaked from her eyes and down her cheeks.

The soreness inside her made her wince, but she didn’t mind. She hated herself for not minding, hated how much she loved feeling sore, used, broken. The stranger left her like the others had, left her alone and empty and hollow. She loved that, too. The stocky man was gone, but his cum leaked from her ass and down her legs, sticky and wet and perfect. A reminder of the only thing she really was. A slut. A whore.

And she was.

Allison didn’t try to deny it this time. Didn’t try to resist the feeling of the vile girl inside her. The Christian girl was just an act. A shitty, stupid act, and she’d been a fool to believe it. The world would see her for what she really was, and it wouldn’t care. The only one who cared was God, and even he had abandoned her, leaving her to face her sinful urges alone.

Alone was better. Alone was the best.

She slumped against the bench, barely able to keep herself upright. She couldn’t believe how much she loved this, how good it felt to give in. How right it was to have everything stripped away, to have the only thing left be her throbbing, fucked raw body.

A broken, perfect mess.

She thought of nothing for a long time. Felt nothing but the ache inside her, the leaking, shameful wetness between her legs. She’d lost it all, and she loved that. She was the worst, most depraved version of herself, and she’d never been happier.

Finally, she stood.

It felt like the hardest thing she’d ever done, her entire body sore and shaky. She barely made it to her feet before she collapsed back onto the bench, gasping for breath and moaning softly at the pain. The blissful, horrible pain.

She could still feel the stranger’s cock inside her. Could still feel him tearing her faith away, pounding her mind blank, leaving her nothing but wet and spent and ruined. That was what she was, what she’d always be. The pretending was finally over.

She told herself it was over, and she knew it was a lie.

Allison pulled up her panties, pulling hard against the soreness inside her. Her breath was ragged, her heart pounding. The cum leaked around the white cotton as she straightened her skirt, as she smoothed the wrinkles in her plain blouse. She felt herself weaken as she stood again.

As she realized she couldn’t hate it.

Her eyes were wet. Her cheeks were wet. She couldn’t tell which was which, but it didn’t matter. The man had given her a lot more than his cum, a lot more than the soreness between her legs. He’d given her what she was.

She was alone now.

He was gone.

The world was empty. She loved that, too.

She was going to hell.

She knew she was. She couldn’t stop herself from knowing. She tried, but it was no use. Allison Hayes knew herself too well, knew the sinful urges that would always consume her, no matter how much she pretended. No matter how much she prayed.

The realization hit her harder than anything else.

Harder than his cock.

Her knees trembled as she straightened her clothing, as she pulled her skirt down and wiped her eyes. As she brushed her long, blonde hair back into its innocent ponytail. She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop loving the way her body felt, couldn’t stop hating herself for that.

She whispered, “Jesus, forgive me,” but the words meant nothing. Not anymore.

She wanted them to.

Her hands were unsteady as she picked up her purse from the ground, the straps twisted where the man had flung it. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything, and it was perfect.

Her body felt cold now.

The cool air against her wet skin made her shiver, made her want more, made her want the stranger to come back. To finish what he started. To break her the rest of the way.

But he was gone.

She was empty.

Her steps were unsteady as she walked away, cum leaking down her legs and the soreness inside her reminding her of the pleasure she’d taken, of the girl she was now. Of the girl she’d always been.

She checked for witnesses, expecting to see pointing fingers, expecting to see God.

But there was nobody. Nobody had seen her disgrace, her violation, her orgasm. She was alone, and it was the loneliest thing she’d ever known.

She hated being alone.

Allison left the park with a mess between her legs and a bigger mess in her heart.

Her body wanted more.

She was going to hell, and she couldn’t wait.

Unholy Violation

Allison didn’t mean to linger, not this time, but the church was emptier than usual. Her guilt-stricken mind did the math. Fewer eyes watching. Fewer whispers. Fewer people thinking that her tight little dress and the pervert’s cock meant she was begging for it. Her pulse picked up speed as she thought she might actually slip away unnoticed, the only impossible prayer she still had faith in. Then the familiar grip of bony fingers closed around her arm, and she almost squeaked in fear. “I saw your sin in the park,” came the expected whisper. It was wet and close, the voice of her nightmares. Her wide blue eyes were already pooling with tears as she turned to face the gaunt, gray-haired man, but Deacon Harold just grinned, because that was his thing. He liked seeing her cry. Allison did too, in a different way, and she hated herself for it. Her lips trembled. “I didn’t mean to...” she pleaded. But she kind of did, and the first of those traitor tears rolled down her cheek. She didn’t even jump when his hand slid down to grope her. She knew it was coming. So did he. “God demands penance,” the deacon said, like the sanctimonious prick he was.

Allison stammered helplessly, her cheeks flushed and wet with tears. “Please, I...” She had no words. Her thoughts were a mess of shame and confusion, fear and humiliation and the thrill of his thin fingers squeezing her tight. “It wasn’t what it looked like!” Her voice was high and panicked, much louder than she meant it to be, but the deacon only chuckled, squeezing her again and reminding her to be quiet, as if it were a library and not a church where she’d been cornered and groped.

Her mouth opened and closed like she couldn’t decide what was more important, explaining or just begging him to stop, and that only seemed to amuse him more. He watched her with those cold, blue eyes, and she knew exactly what he saw: a tear-streaked girl, more aroused than she wanted to admit, shaking in his grip. “Please don’t make me,” she tried, pleading again, but his expression was all satisfaction and glee, like a kid on Christmas morning. His hand cupped her tightly and didn’t let go. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whimpered, and then Deacon Harold leaned in close. His voice was dripping with self-righteousness.

“Nothing supposed about it, Allison,” he said. “You’re just getting what you deserve.”

Her shoulders shook, and she almost choked on her own breath as she tried to hold back a sob. She had known this would happen, but she’d come back anyway. Even she didn’t know why. Faith, maybe, or the last scrap of it that she hadn’t lost yet. Or maybe she just needed to feel like the slut she really was. The sick thing was that she didn’t have to, because this was just like last time, and the time before that. She was already wet, and she could already feel herself starting to like it.

“No,” Allison breathed, trying to convince herself more than the man who was molesting her. The man who she was letting molest her, just standing there and trembling as his hand roamed over her body. The deacon’s smug smile didn’t change. It didn’t even flicker. Of course he knew, and that made it worse. That made it better, somehow, and she bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark as she fought against the humiliating arousal that built so quickly and so easily in spite of her shame. She hated it, and she loved it, and her submission tasted as sweet as sin.

“Is that what you want me to think?” he asked, his breath still hot and close. He grabbed her harder, tighter, a promise of what she knew was coming. The friction of his rough palm against her thin cotton dress made her squirm, not away from him but closer. She was half sure that he would take her right there in the back of the church, in front of anyone who happened to still be around. It was exactly the kind of thing he would do, but somehow that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that she wouldn’t mind, as long as it finally made her cum. “What’s your name again? Innocent little church girl?” he went on, knowing damn well what her name was, knowing damn well that she wasn’t. “Funny. I thought it was Allison the harlot.”

“No,” she whimpered again, softer this time. “Please.” But there was no fight in her voice, and they both knew it.

Deacon Harold chuckled, low and smug and entirely unsurprised. “Exactly what I thought,” he said, triumphant. “You need to be taught another lesson.”

He was horrible, terrible, a cruel and sadistic monster who could see right through her. It was the worst thing, and she hated him. It was the best thing, and she wanted it more than anything in the world. When his hands moved to grope her from the front, she barely resisted. She only gasped and cried as she tried to hold onto the illusion that she didn’t want it.

“Why are you doing this?” Allison asked, just for the sake of it, just to feel like she was trying, but it came out more like “Why aren’t you doing this faster?” and Deacon Harold heard her loud and clear.

“You know why, slut,” he said. His thin fingers pinched her tits through the fabric of her dress, and her breath hitched with painful pleasure. Her mind was a blur of emotion, a confused mix of guilt and fear and need, and the deacon didn’t stop, because he wasn’t a dumb guy. “You know exactly why.”

Allison bit her lip again, because yes, she did know, and there was no point pretending otherwise. She shuddered and tried to close her eyes, but the tears were coming too fast for that to work. Her cheeks were burning and wet with shame as the deacon watched her fall apart, enjoyed every moment of it, and let her go through the same sick routine as he always did. His lips curled into a taunting smile, and his hands moved back down her body. This time she gasped because she wanted to, and she thought she might melt into a puddle on the floor.

“It’s because you love it,” he said, so matter-of-fact and so brutally honest.

She trembled with humiliation, with a building need, and said nothing. Allison did love it. She loved it almost as much as she hated it, and she hated it so much that she was soaked. The words sat on her tongue like a confession, the truth she would never admit, and she squirmed with desire as her soaking wet panties told the story for her.

“You want this,” Deacon Harold said, more command than observation, a few inches from her ear. “You want it bad.”

He squeezed her ass again, forcing a soft, shameful moan from Allison’s lips. “No,” she whispered for the hundredth time, but her weak protests just made him grip her tighter. He watched her reactions, testing and teasing until she was sure that her legs would give out from the overload of sensation. “Please stop,” she said. She didn’t mean it. He knew that, and she knew that, and he let the silence stretch just long enough to make her ache.

“I told you, Allison. This is your penance.”

She didn’t fight as he started leading her away, because she was too far gone for fighting, and because maybe she thought she could pray the lust out of her system if she was alone for a few moments. That didn’t mean anything. She had told herself the same lie every single time. She stumbled after him with tears on her cheeks and desire in her chest, because the cruel satisfaction on his face was the thing she loved to hate, and she was addicted to the way it made her feel. They both knew how the next few minutes would go, and Deacon Harold grinned with anticipation as he marched her away from the chapel. She was too humiliated to do anything but tremble. Too humiliated, and way too turned on.

It was like this, every time. She made the walk of shame down a narrow hallway, only partially against her will, as he talked and taunted and refused to stop touching her. His thin, unyielding fingers never left her body. This time, as he guided her toward the storage room, he groped and prodded and kept her right on the edge of what she could handle. His self-righteous voice was low and soft, never once giving up the pretense that he was saving her from her own sin. It was her word against his, and Allison knew damn well that he had already won that battle. It only made her want it more.

“You like this even more than you did last time,” he said as he slid his hand under her skirt and along the curve of her ass. “Was the last one too small for you?”

He laughed when she didn’t answer, and Allison hated how much she liked the sound. Her breath came faster as he continued to humiliate her, and her legs felt like jelly. “Tell me, Allison,” he said. “Was that park cock too small for you?”

She shuddered, whimpered, didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The deacon had to know that she wouldn’t, that she couldn’t, and the way he relished in her silence made her dizzy with need. His touch was relentless.

“It didn’t stretch you enough, did it?” he asked. His hands never left her body as he guided her along, bony fingers holding her tight, blue eyes watching with delight as she grew more desperate by the moment. “But I’m a man of the cloth, Allison. We don’t get bigger than that.”

“No,” she breathed, still hoping that this was all some sick test of her faith, and still hoping that she would pass for once.

“Yes,” the deacon countered, harsh and cruel, and the rush of shame and lust was so powerful that she almost stumbled. “We do.”

Allison knew she wouldn’t, because that would mean denying how much she wanted it. How much she wanted him. She never managed to do that for long. The deacon smirked as she bit her lip and didn’t resist, because of course she didn’t. Of course he was right. He always was, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise. It was easier to just cry and go along with it, and by the time they reached the storage room, her tears were flowing freely.

“You’re gonna let me stretch that tight little hole until you can’t see straight,” he said.

“No,” she insisted. Her legs were shaking, but not from fear.

“You love it when it hurts.”

“No,” she said again. “Please.”

“Say it, Allison. Tell me what I need to hear.”

“I don’t want to,” she tried, weakly.

“But you will.”

They reached the end of the hallway, the end of the line, and her heart leapt into her throat. They’d been here before, and she hadn’t learned her lesson yet. He was the only one left to teach her. The only one willing, and she was starting to believe that this was the plan all along. She thought that maybe God was just as big of a sadist as the deacon was, and that awful thought just made her wetter.

He pushed the door open and led her inside, still never letting go, not even for a moment. She should have pulled away, but she didn’t, because even the short walk down the hallway was enough to drive her wild.

“Looks like it’s time for another lesson,” he said, enjoying every last second of her pathetic display. His hand slid to her tits, pinched roughly, and her knees almost buckled.

“Don’t,” she said, or tried to say. The weak protest fell apart in her throat, and so did she. “Please. I didn’t mean to. It was... It was...”

“What?”

“A mistake.”

The deacon chuckled again, that awful, terrible sound that she was hooked on. It almost pushed her over the edge. “Better learn to like it,” he said, triumphant, satisfied, his thin fingers roaming under her dress. “Filthy harlot.”

She cried and cried, the tears streaming down her face as she let herself be guided into the room. The door closed, and Allison’s composure snapped like a twig. The deacon’s hand was unrelenting, groping her soft ass with no sign of stopping, and she finally gave in to what he wanted. She was shaking, she was flushed, and she was soaked with need. She loved it, hated it, loved to hate it, and everything after was a blur of pleasure, shame, and tears. “I do,” she gasped. “Oh God, I do.”

The next few minutes were always the best, even though she pretended they were the worst. Allison’s breath came in sharp, pained gasps as Deacon Harold’s smug voice declared, “This is God’s will.” His hands were rough and unyielding, just like his cock. Especially like his cock. And she was going to like it, even more than last time.

“I’ll teach you the hard way,” he promised.

Allison moaned in anticipation, already half-broken. Already half-ready. And then it began.

***

The church storage room was dim and cluttered, just like last time. Just like her fantasies, every time she cried herself to sleep and came harder than ever. Deacon Harold locked the door with an audible click, and she was already whimpering. “This is your punishment,” he said. It was pious, harsh, and the hottest thing she’d ever heard. She loved the way he said it, and she loved the way he didn’t stop talking while he bent her over the table and lifted her skirt. It was barely pushed up past her hips before his cruel, thin fingers hooked into her panties and yanked them down to her knees. “Gonna teach you real good,” he said, as much to himself as to Allison, and she could hear how eager he was to do exactly that. Her own voice was breathy and desperate, not what she meant to say but exactly what he wanted to hear. “Oh God, it hurts,” she whimpered. It was the closest thing to a prayer she had left, and then he fucked it right out of her.

The hard wooden table was cold against her cheek, and the words came faster than she could think. They came harder than his cock. They were demeaning, relentless, and her own arousal shocked her. She hated that her traitor body responded like this. She loved that she had no control over it. “I know it does, harlot,” he said, ruthless and taunting as he pushed her face down, lifted her skirt, and finally exposed the hole he would stretch and wreck until she was in tears. The hole she wanted him to stretch and wreck. “And you love it,” he added, unyielding, and Allison felt a jolt of unwanted desire as he bent her over the table.

“Forgive me!” she gasped, already overwhelmed. Already overwhelmed, already soaking wet. Her voice was weak and desperate as the cool air hit her exposed skin. She trembled and cried, her mind a chaotic mess of guilt and lust as Deacon Harold took his time groping her soft, bare ass. The white cotton panties around her knees felt like the noose they’d hang her with, but she didn’t bother trying to pull them up. There was no point. She was too far gone for that, and so was he. “Oh God, forgive me,” she tried again, but the words weren’t even out of her mouth before his fingers dug into her hips. It was rough, painful, and enough to almost push her over the edge.

“Filthy sinner,” he hissed. The sound of his zipper was loud in the small, cluttered room. “Gonna punish you good,” he said, and she was sure she would climax before he even got his cock inside. Her shoulders shook as she struggled to control herself. As she struggled not to like it as much as she did.

The deacon’s harsh voice filled the air, and Allison almost collapsed from the pleasure of his cruel taunts. He was merciless and so was his cock, because it was inside her without warning, without preparation, before she had a chance to catch her breath. “Oh God, it hurts!” she screamed, half in ecstasy and half in truth. The violation was brutal, the thrust was deep, and the pain shot through her body so fast that it took her breath away. “Hurts so much!” she sobbed. Her hands were pinned behind her back, and the deacon knew exactly what to do to make it hurt even more.

She had to admit it. Had to admit it, because her mind was just as stretched and fucked as her tight little hole. She was dripping, her slick shame soaking her thighs. It hurt, yes, but she loved it, yes, and it only took a few more thrusts for her to stop lying to herself. Her denial faded fast, and Allison couldn’t hold out as Deacon Harold fucked her roughly and without mercy. Her voice was high and strained, begging for something she wasn’t sure of, something she wasn’t sure she deserved. He filled her ass completely, pounded it, stretched it wide around his thick, eager cock. Her lips trembled, and so did the rest of her, because she couldn’t hold out. Couldn’t hold out, couldn’t resist, couldn’t tell if she meant “Forgive me” or “Give me more.”

It was too good to stop. Her body was on fire. The pain was so intense that she thought she might pass out, and the pleasure was even more unbearable. “Fuck,” Allison choked out, no longer sure if she was asking for it or demanding it or just cumming so hard that she had lost her goddamn mind. Her cries echoed off the walls. Her tears fell onto the table. The orgasm built so fast, so strong, so unholy, and her willpower wasn’t as strong as she hoped it would be. It never was. Not with Deacon Harold. Not with his relentless thrusts and his relentless taunting. “It hurts,” she whimpered, but that wasn’t enough. Not even close. “It hurts, oh God, it hurts!”

Allison’s legs shook, and so did the rest of her. Her hair was a tangled mess, her cheeks were flushed and wet, and her cries turned to loud, breathless gasps. “It hurts, it hurts!” she cried, and Deacon Harold grunted with satisfaction. Her body’s betrayal came faster than she ever expected, and she came faster than that. “It hurts!” she screamed, but it didn’t, not anymore, not at all.

“Filthy sinner!” the deacon repeated, and his breath came faster as he grabbed her hips harder and fucked her even more brutally. He stretched her ass wider than ever, and Allison shook with unbearable ecstasy. “You love it,” he hissed again, and the awful, wonderful words pushed her over the edge.

“Please!” she gasped, but it wasn’t really begging, not the way she said it. “Forgive me!” she finally cried, her body shuddering uncontrollably. Her tight, aching hole clenched around the deacon’s cock as she came, hard and intense, her voice breaking with shame and pleasure. Her denial didn’t stand a chance, and neither did she. Her orgasm was violent and immediate, everything she told herself it wouldn’t be, and Allison came hard enough to see stars. Her voice was loud and breathless, repeating the only two words that were left in her fucked out brain. “Forgive me!” she cried again. Her mind was blank. “Forgive me!”

Deacon Harold grunted with each rough, punishing thrust, never letting up, not even as she came. Especially not as she came. Her release gave him more reason to wreck her. Her pathetic gasps filled the small room, and she came and came and came as the deacon kept going, forcing her body to give him more than she thought she had. She was raw and trembling and mindless, so lost in her own unwanted desire that she thought she might die from it. “Please,” she sobbed. “Please!”

The sound of her pleasure, of her voice and her pussy and her shame, drove him to a new level of cruelty. He didn’t give her time to recover. His harsh voice and harsh thrusts kept her on the brink of madness, cumming uncontrollably, even as she thought she couldn’t take any more. Even as she begged for him to finish.

“Forgive me!” she screamed. “Please!” Her own release was too much for her, and the deacon knew it. He didn’t let her come down from the shattering high, pushing her past her limit and leaving her breathless and gasping, cumming harder than she thought she could. “Forgive me,” she whispered, again and again and again, and it might have been to herself. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were wet, and her traitor body didn’t give a fuck. “Forgive me,” she begged, even quieter, and the deacon fucked the shame right out of her.

His harsh breath came faster as he continued his brutal pace. Her tight, clenching hole didn’t give him a choice. The harder he went, the more she loved it. The harder she came, the more he wanted it. Her denial was the first thing to go, and her sense of time wasn’t far behind. Allison didn’t know how long she had been bent over the table, and she didn’t know how long she could take it, but the answer was a lot. The pleasure was more than she could handle, and still not enough. Her body wanted more, demanded more, and she could feel the cruel satisfaction radiating off of the deacon. She could feel it inside her.

Allison had never come so hard in her life, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Didn’t stop her from trying, didn’t stop her from succeeding. Her release was shameful, unstoppable, and left her crying and panting for breath. She thought she would pass out, or die, or worse, that he would stop fucking her before she did. The deacon’s hands were tight and punishing on her bare hips, the unyielding grip of a man who knew what he wanted and knew exactly how to get it. “Damn you, bitch!” he groaned, his voice ragged, and Allison lost herself to the pleasure.

It hit her hard, sudden, overwhelming. Her gasps filled the air as the deacon thrust even deeper and came, thick and hot, inside her. Her own orgasm was so intense that it made her dizzy. “Oh God!” she cried, and she had no idea if she was taking the Lord’s name in vain or just in ecstasy. Probably both. Allison shuddered as her abused hole was flooded with cum, and the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I love it!” she moaned. “I love it!” She loved it, hated it, loved it, and came harder than she ever had in her life. Her voice was high and pained and perfect, and it didn’t stop.

Deacon Harold was relentless as he finished, emptying himself inside her trembling body. Her gaping hole couldn’t contain it, and she shuddered with another shameful orgasm as it leaked out of her, left her crying and begging for more. Her legs finally gave out, and the deacon barely had time to zip up before she collapsed onto the floor. His hands left her, and he smirked as she continued to tremble, watching her reaction the same way he’d watch a fucking sermon. The same way he’d watched every one of them so far.

Her whole body was flushed and wet and wrecked, and he left without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.

***

She was damned, and she knew it. The tears and cum hadn’t even finished dripping from her aching body when the door slammed shut, leaving her alone with a god that didn’t listen. That didn’t care. That probably liked seeing her used and violated as much as she did. Her legs shook so hard that she thought they might give out, but it didn’t matter. Not this time. Allison couldn’t make herself move, so she just stayed there, bent over the table and shivering, hating herself and her shameful, broken mind. Hating herself and her traitor, harlot body, wet and ready for more. She gasped for breath. “Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Allison had never felt so low, and that was saying something. Her tears hit the table, soaking into the wood like every drop of her was unclean and unwanted. Her cheeks were flushed with humiliation, and so was everything else. The room still smelled of incense and her cunt, and the shame hit her like a truck. She loved that smell. Loved that she had let herself get so fucked and used and wrecked that the whole place stank of her release. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. But life wasn’t fair, and she was an awful, filthy slut, and God wasn’t listening to anything she had to say. “Oh God,” she whimpered again, because she couldn’t think of anything else. She couldn’t think of anything except how terrible and wonderful she felt, and how wet and ready she still was.

The sacred setting of the church felt tainted, and so did she. Her blue eyes stung with tears, her blonde hair was a tangled mess, and her panties were so low that she could feel them dragging on the floor. She hadn’t even noticed that the walk to the storage room was shorter this time. Her arousal had left her mindless, shaking, and soaked. It still did. Her mind was so numb that she almost forgot what she was doing here. Maybe the deacon was right, she thought. Maybe she needed this more than anything else in the world, and maybe this was the only lesson she would ever learn. “Oh God,” she breathed, soft and pitiful, still bent over and leaking.

The tears streamed down her face as her aching body trembled with emotion. “Oh God, please,” she whispered, but even the sound of her own voice betrayed her. Even that didn’t sound right. “Please,” she said again, desperate and broken. She loved this feeling too, more than she would ever admit. The pleasure and the pain, the release and the guilt, the terrible sensation of emptiness that made her want to cum even harder than the deacon just had. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she cried, each word softer than the last.

Allison couldn’t stop trembling. Couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop hoping that someone else would come through the door and see how fucking wrecked she was. The thought made her gasp, because she knew she would have given herself to anyone who happened to walk by, and because she was more afraid of that not happening than of the other way around. “Please,” she said again, as much to herself as to God, and finally tried to stand. She had no idea how long she’d been there, or how long it would be before she broke again. Not long, probably. Her whole body shook, and she hated that she didn’t mind.

Her legs were wet with shame as she pulled her panties back up, and the friction made her gasp. Her body’s response was instant and unwanted. She couldn’t help it, not any more than she could help the tears, the orgasms, the uncontrollable lust that left her feeling filthy and ruined. Her whole body was like that, ruined, and she bit her lip as she stood in the empty room and tried to make herself presentable again. The wet fabric of her panties rubbed against her clit as she adjusted her skirt, and Allison almost came again. She could still feel the heat between her legs, still feel the awful, sinful, wonderful throbbing. It left her panting and flushed. She should have been praying for forgiveness, but all she really wanted was more.

It hurt to move, but she didn’t mind that, either. It hurt to stay still even more, and she told herself that was why she finally stood and turned away from the table. The reality was that she needed to cum more than she needed to breathe. More than she needed to cry, and that was a lot. Her sense of shame and direction was as fucked as her body was, and Allison could hardly tell which way she should go. Maybe to the back of the church, to the church where it had all started, where her faith still pretended to live. Maybe to the dark, secluded alley, where a hard, anonymous fuck would make her hate herself even more than she already did.

Her tears fell faster than her pace, soaking the fabric of her tight Sunday dress. Her breath was fast and shallow. She tried to believe that her shameful desires would go away if she stopped thinking about them, stopped thinking about how she liked to be used and broken, but that never worked before. Not for long. She was already fighting to hold it together, to hold herself together, and every step made her more desperate for another rough hand and another rough cock. She pulled the elastic from her tangled hair, wincing in pain, but not from the kind she liked. She wiped her eyes, rubbed her flushed cheeks until she looked more presentable than she felt, and twisted her blonde hair back into its neat ponytail.

Her soft voice echoed in the room as she whispered to herself. “I’m damned,” she said, and there was no fight left. There was no fight left, there was no faith left, and Allison thought she might be okay with that. She had come so hard that she didn’t care. Her legs were shaking as she finally sank to the floor, still hurting, still wet, still aching for more than she could ever have. The hard wood bit into her knees, and she clasped her trembling hands in front of her. Maybe praying wouldn’t work, and maybe the god she prayed to was the same one that liked to watch her suffer, but that didn’t stop her. She was too weak and too broken for anything else. Too weak and too broken for even that, and she knew it.

Allison knelt in silence, trying not to touch herself. Trying not to think about what had just happened, and what she wanted to happen next. Her tears fell faster than her prayers, and her body trembled uncontrollably. “I’m damned,” she repeated, still quiet, still humiliated. “Oh God, I’m damned.” Her whole body ached as much as her soul did, and she thought she might go crazy if she didn’t cum soon. If she didn’t feel that way again. Her panties were soaked with her own slick shame, and she loved the way they rubbed against her. She hated that she loved it. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her trembling lips moved with a whispered prayer.

It hurt to walk, but it hurt more to stay. “Please,” she said, her voice thick with need. “Please!” It didn’t help, it never did, and Allison wasn’t surprised when her prayer for strength didn’t go anywhere. She knew it wouldn’t, because it was already as weak as the rest of her. It was pointless to pretend. The only thing that worked was cumming until she couldn’t stand it, and then cumming more. Allison bit her lip and cried as she thought about Deacon Harold, thought about his cock and his cruelty and the way she let him wreck her. Her hands stayed in her lap, a constant battle between sin and a different kind of sin, and the hard wood of the floor didn’t feel as good as he did.

She lost herself to the shame and to the pleasure, almost forgetting where she was. The same way she had forgotten herself in the park, the same way she would forget herself again as soon as someone else put their hands on her. Her flushed cheeks and soaking panties were a good reminder of what she was. The only reminder she needed. “Please,” she whispered again, and the desperation in her voice sounded more like lust than like anything holy. She cried, and she knelt, and she fought with herself until she couldn’t take it anymore. Until she was so overwhelmed that she thought she might cum without even touching it.

Then, and only then, did she force herself to her feet. She could hardly believe she made it that long without shoving her hand between her legs and breaking completely. Her own strength surprised her, but not enough. Not enough to stop her, and not enough to make her the pure, chaste girl she used to be. Allison took one shaky step at a time, one shaky breath at a time, and knew it wouldn’t be long before she had to. Her unwanted arousal was almost unbearable, even after the ruthless pounding she had just taken.

Allison’s tears kept falling as she finally left the storage room, even after she thought she had cried them all out. The violation left her sore and bruised, a constant reminder of her shame and the pleasure she couldn’t control. She was used, she was empty, she was a slut, and it made her want to feel like that all over again. Her voice was a weak echo in her head. She told herself she didn’t want it, but she was the world’s worst liar, and that made her laugh. It came out as a choked sob, and she loved and hated herself for it.

Her body was broken, and so was her mind, but she knew where she was. She was better with directions than with faith, and her feet led her exactly where they were supposed to go. Allison’s steps were stiff and pained, and she winced with every one. She couldn’t stop thinking about how that was exactly what she loved. She had never felt more ashamed, or more turned on, and both of those made her soak through her dress.

It took longer than she thought, because she couldn’t stop crying and she couldn’t stop remembering. Her own release was so powerful, so addictive, that she almost didn’t make it. She didn’t let herself stop, and she didn’t let herself cum. Not yet.

The sacred halls of the church were the most sinful thing about her, and she had just been groped and fucked and filled with cum. Her eyes were downcast to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze, but she kept her wits about her long enough to leave unnoticed. And then she was free.

Alleyway Violation

A frigid stab of terror lanced through Allison as she stepped inside the seedy bar. Her eyes squinted against the darkness, scanning for familiar faces among the tattooed throng of rough men and brassy women. Everyone was half-dressed, flaunting skin. Allison tugged at her high collar, willing her faith to protect her modesty, but every face seemed to leer, every glance felt obscene. With each step further into the bar, the air grew thick with lechery. A tall man in a leather jacket watched her from across the room, his smirk cutting through the haze. Allison's heart beat faster, more frantic with each step, and she hurried toward the bathroom. She knew this was a mistake. Her cheeks burned as she felt his presence closing in behind her. He caught up just as she reached the shadowy hallway, and suddenly his hands were on her, on her ass, groping, possessive. She gasped, almost in shock, as he chuckled into her ear, "Bend over, bitch. I know what girls like you really want."

A knot tightened in Allison's stomach as she stood there, her modest skirt and blouse an obvious contrast to the neon lights and sticky floors. Her purse felt like a fragile shield against the thumping music and raucous laughter. She should never have come. Her fingers brushed nervously against the buttons of her blouse, making sure none had come undone in the fray. Somewhere inside this den of sin, her friends were waiting, but they were the last thing on her mind as she felt the obscene stares, undressing her where she stood.

She clutched her purse tighter and took a tentative step, her heart thudding in her chest like a church bell gone mad. The room was a swirl of half-naked bodies and questionable intentions. She ducked her head, avoiding eye contact, but it only seemed to draw more attention. Rough-looking men with sleeveless shirts and tattoos followed her with their eyes, smirking. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. The crush of bodies felt suffocating, each step through the throng a test of her resolve. Maybe the bathroom, she thought. Maybe if she could just have a moment to breathe. She moved faster, desperate to escape the leering crowd.

Allison caught a glimpse of him from across the room. He was watching her, the man with the leather jacket, a vulture ready to swoop in on the wounded. Her pulse quickened as he started to follow, moving like he had nothing to fear and everything to gain. She glanced over her shoulder, panic surging. He was closing in. Her eyes darted frantically for a way out, a safe place, anywhere to hide from his predatory stare.

The hallway loomed ahead, a shadowy reprieve from the chaos. She just needed a moment, just needed to be alone with her shame and her God. She nearly ran now, half from fear and half from something darker. The tattooed man was on her heels. Allison reached the hallway, but not in time. He caught up in a single, smooth motion, cutting off her escape.

Allison was trapped, the darkness a shroud around her as the man cornered her against the wall. Her lips parted in a silent plea, but there was no one to save her here. Her friends were still lost somewhere in the clamor. The other patrons, with their careless laughs and clinking glasses, had already forgotten about her. They wouldn’t have cared even if they did notice.

The man’s hand was rough and sudden on her, grabbing a fistful of her ass. "Nice ass you got there," he said, his voice gritty with cruel amusement. She flinched, stiffening under his touch, and tried to twist away. Her words, when they came, were fragile and breathless. "Stop it!" she said, but she could hear how weak she sounded, how unconvincing. She pushed against his chest, but he didn’t budge.

Her ass clenched under his grip, and Allison hated the way her body responded even more than she hated his groping. A dark heat spread through her, traitorous and thrilling. It bloomed in her belly, a wickedness she knew too well. Her jaw went slack, and her shoulders slumped with the weight of it. "Men are monsters," she thought, but it was a thin voice in the back of her mind, drowned out by the desire flooding her veins. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She remembered too clearly what had happened last time, how she had begged for them to stop but it was herself she couldn’t resist. She sagged against the wall, helpless.

His lips were close now, almost tender against her ear. The illusion shattered with his words, rough and derisive. "Bend over, bitch," he said. "I know what girls like you really want." His breath was hot on her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Her eyes squeezed shut against the shame. Her chest heaved, and the quickness of her breath gave her away. The last of her resolve broke as his hand pressed harder into her ass, more demanding now. Her mouth opened to protest again, to say something, anything, but a soft moan escaped instead. The man chuckled, and his laugh cut through her like a dirty knife.

Allison felt herself sinking, lost in the pleasure and humiliation. She fought to hold on to a last shred of decency, but it slipped further away with each breathless pant. Her legs felt weak, her body melting under his touch. She whimpered, and the man grinned wider, knowing he had her. It was happening again, and there was no use pretending otherwise.

***

The night was thick with degradation, clinging to Allison like a stain as the tattooed man shoved her into the alley. The bar's music bled into the darkness, a lurid soundtrack to her disgrace. Trash cans clattered as he slammed her into the brick wall, holding her in place with a brutal hand on her back. Allison's heart raced, half in fear, half in sinful anticipation. His fingers were rough, hasty, baring her skin to the cool night air, and her traitorous body shivered with need. "Please, don't," she whimpered, but the words were thin, lost even to her own ears. "Tight little slut," he grunted as he yanked her panties down, already knowing her better than she knew herself.

She stumbled against the bricks, stunned by the suddenness of it all. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drifted from the bar, mixing with distant traffic and making her isolation feel complete. The world went on without her, oblivious to her shame. Trash cans and empty bottles rattled as she hit the wall, and the man pinned her with a violent efficiency. Her breath came fast, panicked. It was happening again. The ground was littered with debris, filthy with the marks of other people’s disregard. Just like she was about to be.

The tattooed man yanked her skirt up around her waist. Allison gasped at his audacity, his hunger, but she felt herself respond in the most indecent ways. The cool air sent a shiver down her spine, and she knew he saw it. Knew he loved seeing it. Her underwear was plain and white, a last defense of modesty that felt laughable now. He barked a laugh, mocking. "You love this, don't ya?" he taunted, his hands already pulling her panties down. She couldn’t deny the way her body arched back, needy, impatient.

Her voice shook with desperation as she whimpered, "Please, don't," but she wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all herself. She remembered the brutal thrills of her last violation, the sharp turns of pleasure and pain that had haunted her since. It frightened her how much she wanted to feel that again. Her heart pounded with the fear of wanting it, and the even greater fear of not getting it.

Allison struggled against him, more out of habit than desire. Her hands pushed at him, but it was useless. Her efforts were as pathetic as her faith. He grabbed her harder, reveling in her false resistance. The man grinned, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he spun her around to face the wall. She felt him position himself, felt the heat of his cock as he lined it up with her ass. Panic mixed with lust in her belly, and she knew what was coming. The shameful truth was that she wanted it. Needed it.

Her eyes clamped shut as he pushed her harder against the wall, and she heard the metallic sound of his zipper. Her chest heaved. Her pulse throbbed. She almost begged for it, but he gave her no chance.

The man rammed into her, slamming his cock into her ass with no warning, no mercy. Pain shot through her like a firecracker. She screamed, the sound echoing through the alley and then swallowed by the city’s night. Her cheek scraped against the brick, her eyes squeezed shut as she fought against the searing agony. He held her down and fucked her harder, pounding her like an animal. "Goddamned perfect ass," he grunted, driving into her with brutal force.

Allison’s legs buckled as he fucked her, her knees weak and spirit broken. She sagged against the wall, helpless to his assault. The pain blurred and twisted into something else, something even worse. It spread from her ass to her belly to every wicked nerve. She couldn’t hold back the sinful moans that escaped her, couldn’t stop her body from meeting his thrusts, eager and obscene. "It hurts!" she cried, but they both knew she didn’t want him to stop.

Each violent push took her higher, faster. Her insides clenched around him, and her body lit up with pleasure she didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to end. The sound of his hips slapping against her skin filled her ears, drowning out everything else. Her own cries were loud and shameless now.

The world disappeared as Allison came, harder than she’d ever imagined possible, the orgasm tearing through her like a storm. Her back arched, and her eyes flew open. Her voice cracked, a raw scream, "God, yes!" It shattered her, and she loved every second. Her limbs felt boneless as she shook, overwhelmed. She was lost, blissfully lost, and the man rode her through it, relentless and vicious.

His hand pressed her face into the wall, and he called her "Cumdump" as he finished, holding her tight for one final, brutal thrust. His cock throbbed inside her, and she felt the heat of his cum filling her.

Allison gasped for breath, trying to hold on to the last echoes of the orgasm. The man’s release was a tidal wave, claiming her completely. His final insult, the cruel nickname, hung in the air as he let go and stepped back. She sagged, barely keeping herself upright as he zipped his pants with casual indifference.

He left her there, wrecked and dripping, a hollow shell of her former decency. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He knew she was ruined, and that was all he’d wanted.

***

Allison crumpled against the wall, the final tatters of decency stripped away. Cum leaked from her, the man's brutal touch lingering on her skin. Her legs shook, useless, as she clutched at herself, at her faith, and found nothing to hold onto. The world was garbage around her – cigarette butts and empty bottles, but nothing as filthy as what she'd become. She whispered, "I'm a slut," the words a benediction. She pulled her panties up with shaking hands, wincing at the soreness, but even the pain felt like a blessing. "Jesus, I'm lost," she said, touching herself, feeling every inch of shame and knowing she wanted more. Her hand moved faster, insistent, as the last of her purity crumbled.

Allison’s back slid down the rough brick until she was half-sitting, half-collapsed. Her legs spread helplessly in front of her, still shaking, still damp with his release. She stayed there, skirt rucked around her waist, panties at her ankles. Her body was a landscape of disgrace. Even her blouse had come unbuttoned in the frenzy. She didn’t bother to fix it.

The wetness trickled down her thighs, staining her with each slow drop. Her skin felt raw, tender, and the memory of the man’s final thrust echoed in her mind. "Cumdump," he had called her. It should have been an insult, but it filled her with a dark satisfaction. The reality of what she was hit her, and instead of despair, she felt a dizzying freedom.

The world around her was as filthy as she was, but even in that alley, she was the dirtiest thing. The ground was strewn with garbage, old food wrappers and cigarette butts. Empty bottles clinked together in the night wind, a symphony of decay. She was just one more piece of trash among the wreckage.

Allison winced as she tugged her underwear back up, feeling the slickness against her skin, the soreness between her legs. Even that small act felt obscene, and it thrilled her. "I'm a slut," she whispered again, the words like a balm on an open wound. "I'm a slut." It didn’t hurt to say. It felt good. So good.

She tried to pray, to reach for some last semblance of the pious girl she had been, but even as she formed the words, she knew. "Jesus, I'm lost," she said, but it was a prayer to an empty heaven. A hymn for a dead God. It had no meaning, not anymore.

Her hand moved with a will of its own, drifting down, drawn to the heat and the mess between her legs. She touched herself, feeling the slickness and the hurt and the beautiful, ruined pleasure. Her mind was awash with images of the man’s aggression, the way he had taken her so brutally. She remembered how it felt when her last shreds of resistance broke. How it felt to finally be free.

Her fingers pressed deeper, insistent, urgent, working faster and faster. Allison felt her expressions shift as she gave in, gave up. Her eyes fluttered shut as she recalled the moment she’d screamed for more, when she knew she could never go back. Her hand moved with a frantic rhythm. Her breath hitched, and her head fell back against the wall, eyes open, unseeing.

It took her by surprise, how strong it was. The orgasm shook her, starting in her belly and radiating out until every nerve felt electric. Allison was unmoored, unhinged. She came harder than she had thought possible, the release leaving her gasping and wrecked. Her voice cracked on the last of the scream, and it echoed around her, the alley, the city, the world.

She shivered with the aftershocks, slumped and sticky. The man’s cum still dripped from her, mingling with the new wetness of her own making. Everything was different now. The sky looked closer, the stars brighter.

Allison’s hair was tangled, her makeup a blur of smeared color. Her cheeks were streaked, her mouth swollen. She looked every bit the thing she had become. There was no disguising it. No hiding it. Her degradation was complete, and it felt like being reborn.

She heard the sounds of laughter and music, the life of the bar continuing around her. It was close enough to touch, that world she had run from. The world she now wanted more than anything. The lecherous energy called to her like a promise, a prophecy.

She smiled, her decision made. She wouldn’t go back inside to her friends. Not now, not with this new understanding of herself. She didn’t need them, or their pity, or the lie of purity. She stayed in the alley, and let the darkness claim her.