The community that I live in, we have a special relationship to the Earth. We keep ourselves a little removed from other people--we live on a big property a few miles from the nearest town, in a mish-mash of buildings, boarding-house-style. Our Leader started the community, I'm told, when he had visions of how humans could found a new Garden of Eden.
I know that some people call us a cult. I don't know enough about it to tell; I've never been off the property, not since I can remember. I've never had much privacy, either; I went straight from the girls' room, where all the girl-children sleep together side-by-side on sleeping rolls, to the room I live in now when I turned eighteen.
This room is nicer, because I have a bed, and I only have to share it with three other women. Most of the adults have their own rooms, though; or, rather, they share with their spouse. Every girl is married at eighteen, to whatever man that Leader decides will serve best as her husband.
But me and the other women in my room, we don't have husbands. We're the Sin Wives.
I don't know how Leader decides who becomes a Sin Wife and who doesn't; the oldest woman in our group, Sarah-Anne, says she was chosen just because there weren't any men to marry when she turned eighteen. She's the most bitter about it, too, though, so I don't know if she's telling the truth or not. I don't think that I did anything wrong to be chosen.
Leader says it isn't a punishment; he says it's a spiritual calling.
Usually, it feels like a punishment.
It's mostly a matter of practicality, I guess. The fact is that it's a sin to have non-procreative sex, even between husband and wife--even just with your own hand--but people get horny. And we can't be swimming in babies all of the time. Leader is the one who decides who gets to have babies, and when; and if you're not on that list, you're not supposed to be fucking. Instead, you come to our room--at night only, under the cover of darkness, to hide your shame--and you use us.
Tonight, I'm being used by a couple. The woman is sitting on my pillow, her skirt pulled up so that I can lick out her pussy and suck on her clit. Behind me, her husband fucks my ass. That way, they both get what they want, but since I'm between them, they're not sinning; I absorb their sin, and I purify it with my suffering.
The suffering part is supposed to happen in the morning: Leader spanks the sin out of each of us, and then he inspects us to see if any further purification is needed. Further purification usually means hot pepper oil applied to our labia or, if you're really unlucky, right on the clit.
But if you ask me, we're suffering pretty much all the time, because that's the only time our pussies get any air. We're locked up in chastity belts all night and all day otherwise. Everyone else gets to use us for their sinful pleasure, and we don't get a taste, not a single caress on our aching bits unless it's a cotton swab with that damned oil on it.
The woman whose clit I'm sucking on groans and shakes, her thighs squeezing around my head in her second orgasm of the evening. My own untouched slit pulses and oozes inside its metal prison; I'm so experienced at cunnilingus that I'm thinking near-obsessively about how it would feel to have my own pussy licked, exactly where I'd want someone to put their tongue on me.
Once she's done, I start to lift my head up, trying to get some air, but she hisses, "another," and pushes my head down again.
It's Lenore, the woman who runs the kitchen. I'm not supposed to know who she is--that's the whole point of keeping the lights off in our room at night--but really, we know; we almost always know. It's a small community, you recognize voices, you get to know people. Lenore is mean, because she gets jealous. She hates that she can't just fuck her husband without one of us between them. She makes him pick a different girl each time, as if he's at risk of getting too attached to our asses.
I don't mind. Her husband is rough and ungentle, barely bothering to prepare my ass enough not to hurt me; his dick in me is more of a nuisance than anything else, and I wish he'd hurry up and finish.
That's better than the alternative, though.
In the next bed over, I hear Charity whimpering. She's getting fucked by one of the single men. She's a special favorite for a lot of them, because she's so noisy. I can tell from the way her whimpers are going up in pitch that she really likes whatever he's doing, it's making her feel really good.
Lenore's husband finishes inside of me with a groan. Lenore is still pushing my head down, though, so even after he pulls out, I keep licking and sucking.
"Ooh, ooh," she grunts finally, grinding her wet sex into my face and pulling my hair hard as she comes a third time. "Yeah, babe, that feels so good." She's talking to her husband, like I'm not even there, like I'm a thing. That's kind of what they're supposed to do, so I probably shouldn't be bothered, but Lenore does it in a way that feels especially mean; she's doing it to make a point.
I think it's pretty bold of her to be so rude when my teeth are so close to her clit.
Not that I'd ever do anything like that, but I'll bet that Sarah-Anne will, some day, if Lenore keeps pushing it.
I just groan in relief and take deep breaths when she finally pushes me out from between her thighs. She nudges me out of the way like an oversized pillow and grabs her husband, yanking him out of the room and cooing in his ear about how good the sex was, like she thinks she can make him forget that he was in some other woman's ass.
In the next bed over, Charity's whimpers go quiet as the man fucking her finishes and pulls out. After he leaves the room, she starts to sob quietly, squirming in her bed. Humping the mattress, probably. I do it too, sometimes; it's hard to resist, when you feel like you're right on the edge. Your body just wants you to keep going, like if you keep moving like you're getting fucked, the pleasure will keep coming. Some of the men, when they fuck you right, you get so close to coming that you can barely stand it, but none of them ever last long enough for any of us to finish.
"Stop that," Sarah-Lee snaps from her bed. She wasn't visited by anyone tonight. She gets just as cranky when they do as when they don't; I worry I'll be as foul-tempered as she is if I get to her age and I'm still locked in this damned belt. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
Charity finally stops moving and muffles her sobs in her pillow. I bury my face in my pillow, too, and try to ignore the steady throb in my pussy long enough to fall asleep.
***
The morning purification is uneventful.
We shower and then present ourselves to Leader for ten slaps each--across our bare asses, with the belt; that part really doesn't hurt much, given that Leader's pushing seventy years old these days--and then we spread our legs and stand there while he opens each of our belts in turn and inspects our wet pussies.
At least one Sin Wife always gets the extra purification. Sometimes it's easy to know who; if you're especially wet, that's a good way to get his attention, or if you make a noise or fidget when he touches your thighs or pulls your labia apart. Sometimes, if there's no clear signs of sin, I think he just picks a girl at random.
This morning, it's Charity. No big surprise there. She's dripping straight down her thighs, practically flooding the belt when he pulls it off, still overworked from her visitor the night before. We all wince a little when we see how wet she is, because we know; she already knows, too.
Leader still inspects all four of us, even after he sees the massive wet patch between Charity's thighs. He takes his time. I'm last in line; the shaking touch of his arthritic hand between my legs is torture, stirring up nerves that are starved for touch. My pussy clenches over and over as he parts my labia majora, some animal instinct in my brain telling it to get ready for a finger or a whole cock up in there, but he just leans in to stare at my throbbing clit, like he's judging how erect it is.
He exhales, and the brush of air across my clit startles me, making me gasp.
