Sunstreamers

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.

By the time her lips had taken to the head of his cock, and her tongue had started to probe the great slit there, precum had begun to bead out and lather in her cheeks. It tasted so potent, a bountiful and savory taste, but she could not cherish it as it deserved. She swallowed it down and sucked more of the young man, until his fist-sized cockhead had nearly unseated her jaw from its socket.

It was then that she thought once more against this lewdness. But just a taste of the youth's icy glare corrected her. Though she felt stretched to her limit, though she doubted her mouth could keep any more of his monster, she trusted, and sucked once more.

It was not lost on her then, nor was it now, the legendary size of that young man's shaft. No ordinary man, she realized in the years past, would have enticed her to such primitive depths. But he, so much bigger, so much better, wore masculinity like a crown. And so, even as the head overfilled her mouth, and battered at the entrance of her throat, and conjured up floods of sticky drool and mascara-smearing tears, she did her duty and sucked.

Between her fingers, double-fisting the most of his dick that her mouth could not worship, a cocktail of her spit and his precum frothed and webbed. As her throat opened, and accepted more of him with every bob of her brunette, bunny-eared head, she relinquished her anxiety. These motions, these tender gulps on his meat, these caresses cherishingly on his ballsack, brought him pleasure that she was happy to provide.

St. Roe, the bunny virgin pure,

So favored by the argent queen,

For cursed lands with want to cure,

Did venture with her knights agleam.

When he drew out his glorious cock, he squeezed her cheeks, spurting out glinting threads of drool that danced with the same ribbony light that cloaked him. To this day, she knew not what prompted her to part her creasy lips and loll her tongue; all she knew was how right it felt to swallow when he spat in her mouth.

It came so naturally, when he pushed her to the ground, to crook her head in her gauntleted arms and present for him. It was curious, that time and now, how eagerly she arched her back and spread her legs. Her heart twinkled then, as though he were taking her maidenhead; still now, she was sure she would have given it to him.

A pink handprint had lingered on her ass for precious hours after their tryst- a mark of his territory before he ravished her. In the times since that day, in the lonely hours she had spent reminiscing, she became familiar with the sensation she had known for the first time in that moment- streams of her juices frolicking from her vulva, down her leg. He had let quiet persist for only a moment. In a flash like of lightning, he had struck her cervix; like thunder the instant after, her vagina burst with a thousand euphoric colors.

What little power was left in her to think was spent on surprise- at the ease with which eager vulgarities escaped her, at the giving-way of her wizened alto to slutty and maidenish whines. Her once-stern lips gasped, and cast thin strings of spit, and settled into a pout that never quite left even once he had left her.

Every sensitive spot inside her lustful channel was drummed by the stranger's almighty cock. His monument of masculinity stretched her nigh to breaking, dominated her into a simpering mess, begging and praising and knowing naught but the pink flood of orgasm. Vesta, St. Roe's last and most valiant knight-missionary, was reduced before this truest of men to a thot, a hole meant only to be cummed in, wrecked, and carelessly discarded.

And beneath his titan shaft, yanked by her sacred bunny-ear headband, she was happy. Amidst this age-weathered monastery, under the creases in her cheeks, she became a young woman again. Even now, the ripples in the gleaming holy water reminded her- of how her pussy splashed, pummeled by the stranger's massive balls.

"Destroy my pussy...!" The words still tingled at her lips. She had still wanted for a word, to name his manliness and his dominance. She would have to wait to know that mystery. "Truest of men! Biggest of balls! Make a wet, milfy cocksleeve of me!"

From pagan past was birthed anew,

St. Asper banished frenzied rains.

She led the pigs to quiet truths,

Beneath divine and chasted reign.

In the breeze of day, ripples crossed the purity pools, like the shockwaves the handsome young man had lain into her ass cheeks. With every thrust he had filled her body with a tingling anticipation. It blossomed out of her needy womb, and filled her from her clutching fingers to her curling toes like wine pouring steadily into an amphora. That thunderous pleasure deafened out all thoughts but those of cock, and babel fell from her lips instead of praise.

Closer it came, and more did sensation obscure her thoughts. Tears of amazement striped her cheeks, and her juices puddled deeper between her knees; she witnessed the lurid star being born in her womb. And as that star burst, and every signal alit with a primeval reverence for the youth's manhood, and every nerve wept before his glory and exalted him, the secret word had taken shape in her keening.

Her knotty fingers clawed at the ground, her thighs clutched closer to his hips, her ass clapped beneath the disciplining hand of the beautiful stranger. And ecstasy of a superken sort overran her body, and wracked her hopelessly with cum. Her screams echoed far into the deathwoods, sending dire birds scattering from black trees and jostling the undead out of their stupor. And in those honorless and servile wails, the name of his masculine power, the word to describe his demidivinity: "Yes, daddy! Daddy, your cock is so big!"

Age and duty had once bought her respect from the younger bunnies, before they had immured themselves in meditation. They revered her stern lip, her firm hand, and bulwark loyalty to guarding their holy mission. They had not seen what she was like in the gateyard, ass in the air and branded with handprints, flooding out the purity pools with her femcum- crying out "daddy" to a man young enough to be her son.

Nor did they see her scramble to her knees, and beg like a puppy with eyes fluttering and tongue eager, to welcome his majestic load. The sun, eclipsed by his balls, was unable to outshine his manhood's glory. Beneath an ice-blue sneer, a sinful shark-toothed grin. With a few pulls of both his hands, he drew himself past cum's teetering edge, and from him rushed forth a flood, sugar-thick and shining white.

There was a force behind him beyond just the vigor of the young. Within that great and sloshing ballsack was a potence unequaled by any man her age or his. It came not in strings but in rockets, and like a tempestuous wave crashing against the seaside walls of Daevograd, cast gleaming sheets over her as it collided.

Her mouth so dutifully awaiting was in a moment routed, and her throat just barely leveed the tide with greedy gulps. Like shining holy water it washed over her, as untarnished and eternal; it webbed between her brown locks and dampened them black, it ran like gushing falls over her breastplate and oozed between the links of her maille. All the while, her fists quivered girlishly at her curtsying hips; her tongue still welcomed more of his jizz, honored the royal plenty of his orgasm, even as her eyes cowered away, and stupefied under unabating ecstasy.

Again and again she swore he could not keep cumming. Again, again, she prayed for just a moment more beneath his seed. Again, again, he crushed her doubts beneath his balls, and put all the men she could imagine to brutal shame. So thick was she slathered, that she could no longer feel the thunder when his next pulse battered her. Until his mace-heavy cock clapped her about the ear, and cast her down.

"Clean my dick, bitch."

The orgasm that was finally draining from her exhausted pussy ignited again when he spoke. With an immediacy she would expect for her daily masses, she crawled back up, slutty and catlike; there, she bathed him with the same worshipful tongue that whispered liturgies to Daevograd's faraway Queen. She indulged in every instant of his taste, of the full and heady savor of his nut, of the whole masculinity of his skin. She curated every of his many inches, to ensure he was pleased with her work.

"Thank you for fucking me, daddy," she gasped as she finished.

"Good girl."

When finally the jizz had dripped from her cheeks, and her eyelids had unstuck, she saw only the mission's walls, all filigreed with vines and cratered by ages. No young man, no hero of her pussy. As quickly as he arrived, as effortlessly as he had made a whimpering slut of her, he had left. From whatever place he had gone, he had never returned to the mission, or to her.

St. Scylla, patron of the waves,

Whose branches clutch the sinners close.

Her coral gaoled the hands away

From her people's craving holes.

The noontide sun inched behind the treetops, and the holy water's radiance dimmed, and the once-energetic streamers became sparse and thin. The deathwoods' utter shadow crept like claws, and brought somberness with it.

Whenever the sun met the purity pools, she thought of him. Her pussy ached, insatiable to anything she could use to please it, begging for that strange youth's meat. For but a day- for but an hour or less- he had made her young again. To be used, irreversibly wrecked like a bathhouse thot- it had, if only in the hazy bliss of orgasm, let her believe that her maiden years were not so far behind her.

Every hour since, she yearned, body and mind, to serve him and his balls once more. Each day she fancied, even if she knew it not ever to be, that he would stride through the dancing reflections to choke her with his cock. She thought of him forevermore; he never thought of her again.