In heavy waters locked in steel,
A bull of brass and argent maid.
The lands and beasts before Him kneel,
And at Her heels the kingdom lay.
Black moss draped in cascades from the walls of St. Roe's mission; the mortar had fallen away, pocked by age into mere dust, and replaced with the hungering strands of pallid ivy. The cloister doors, sealed for forgotten years, shuttering in the beast nuns with their secret whispers, had slouched out of their hinges- dark, and damp with rot.
Her boobs were not the perky teardrops of her youth, nor were they the matronly jugs common to women her age; instead they sagged, and wobbled in the cups of her cuirass like water. Freckled skin pudged around the maille leotard, and over the rim of her cuisses. The wedge heels of her sabatons grew more frustrating as the years went by.
When Vesta came to the accursed deathwoods as a gleam-eyed virgin and for the first time donned the bunny ears, the mission was already struggling. Few humans beside herself had followed the dire rabbits and their doctrine to these exiled lands. And the supplies were slim, and the poor undead the nuns had intended to heal had seemed more like besiegers, maddened and battering at the portcullis.
With every week since then, a new splinter in the battlements, a new crease at the corner of her eyes. Despite her unending vigil, her stern-eyed sentry at the mission's gateyard, age was making marks on her. Only the purifying waters, which rested in clear footpools across the atrium, were permanent, as untarnished and glittering as the day they were ported from the Queen-Cathedral's palace.
In the scant few moments of noontide, the sun peeked through the blighted canopy and alit the mission in dancing reflections, like streamers running white across the walls. That was when he came, some hazy time ago. Though his armor was lusterless, and his sword chipped and sloughing rust, his fair skin yet carried the sunshine through it. Over his body danced the reflections, like pagan maidens tying ribbons around a maypole.
She had readied to ask his apology for his intrusion, but a sight had arrested her. A grandiose shaft, a pillar of cock, hung heavily between his legs. In the gentle breeze it swayed, tapping one of his knees and then the other. The radiant streamers caressed like fingers, giving worship to innumerable inches; as to his balls- countless kisses, one for each of the pounds sloshing within his nutsack.
He had asked about the whereabouts of a twinkish man wielding sabers. Again she intended to protest his presence, but another glance to his endowments pulled a different answer up instead. "I have seen no such man."
"Then make yourself useful and suck my cock."
St. Tors of turtles, wise and old,
The name of holy waters knew.
And he the deeds of heroes told,
And guarded dear their floating tombs.
A scowl and a stutter had stoppered up her mouth. To a woman of religious dedication, to a woman twice-and-some his age, she would expect some respect to be given. She thought to call him twerp, to scold him, to take a switch to his knuckles, but she managed nothing. Until a word she didn't anticipate formed on her tongue. "Yes..." she had replied, to her shock. But even then it had felt a word had been missing.
As the distance between them closed, her knees began to quiver. They only found relief when she settled to the ground, feeling the chill of her high-heeled sabatons as they tucked beneath her freckled butt cheeks.
It was impossible then, and remained so now, to describe the presence that his balls exuded. It was a scent, perhaps, but with that scent came an ephemeral gravitas, and it inspired in her a baser impulse that the faithful were meant to be above. She could not deny his authority, any more than she could deny her womanhood.
