Beneath Alicia's white gown and between her breasts, a silver cross hangs from around her neck. She never removes it. Not even for prayer. At night it collects sweat as she straddles my thin body. She pivots her hips until my cock bursts and slithers out like a worm. Afterward, she dutifully wipes up my semen with the washcloth and falls asleep next to me.
One day I find her caressing the cross, as she stares at it, contemplating.
Contemplating what?
Later on, in bed, Alicia's moans are barely audible. She mumbles something foul as she washes off my semen, before falling asleep next to me.
The question of what haunts her burns hotter the day I catch her staring at the cross without caressing it.
No. Not staring. Glaring.
Accusation beams down from those eyes. Come nightfall she lays still, while I pump my six-and-a-half-inch cock into her supple body. She doesn't make a sound. She refuses to clean up my mess but falls asleep next to me as always.
The next day, the necklace that looped around her neck for as long as I've known her now hangs from her fingers. Fingers that imprisoned the sweat glistened cross. She sets it free, flying through the air, and with a plop, it disappears into the river.
The next morning the cross that stood on the church altar for three generations goes missing. A day later it reappears, the bottom half smelling like pussy juice.
My bed's been empty for two days.
I consult the old woman. The one with the upside-down five-pointed star hanging from her neck. The one said to be seen on her knees and sucking off every married man in the village. I don't have to say a word before she bares her teeth and leads me into the belly of the woods. Frogs and crickets gurgle its stirring hunger for innocence. Night's cold blanket hides sculptures depicting debaucherous scenes carved into tree trunks.
One shows a voluptuous demon straddling a horrified angel's thick cock. Another displays feminine angels on either side of the devil. Their tits droop around each of his thighs. One's mouth is wrapped around his left testicle, while the other engulfs the top half of his cock.
The largest sculpture sits between me and a campfire up ahead. The piece is carved independently from any surrounding tree. Shadow-casting wings sprout from an angel's back, and arch high over her body. Her empty eyes glare at two demon heads, she's holding against her crotch, their tongues frozen at the moment they meet against her clit.
As I walk past the carved wooden statue, I hear Alicia's voice in the distance.
The closer I get to the campfire glow, the louder my wife's moans become. These were lecherous screams and whimpers I'd never heard before. The desperate pleas of a common whore, begging for wave after wave of ecstasy. Cries that celebrate being brought back from a grave of repression.
"Take me! Fuck me! Yes! Fuck me, Satan!"
Strong clawed hands grip my wife's ass, lifting and dropping her on his thick cock. It's the kind of forearm-long cock sluts can't get their whole hand around. Her slippery pussy, clutches, and massages the hardened flesh. Despite the distance, I know the bounce of her tits and can almost feel her hardened nipples brushing against his broad chest.
My cock grows hard. Precum darkens my trousers.
"Good little slut! You don't need your husband's weak little cock anymore, do you?"
"No, dark lord!" she howls, her ass still bouncing on his dick. "His tiny penis means nothing to me!"
"And what else?"
