Ave Maria

Mary Magdalene

I was 22 years old in the summer of 2013, and in need, sadly enough, of a job. I'd graduated from Eastern Illinois on a football scholarship, but I'd majored in sports medicine and, well, let's just say that I was now regretting the early-college mantra of "do what you love." I applied everywhere that might have summer openings, being wholly unqualified for anything that paid above minimum wage, even, in my desperation, applying to the local catholic summer bible camp that ran for ten weeks June-August and that I had as a high schooler attended at the insistence of my devout mother. Of course they were the only ones who offered me a job, impressed perhaps overmuch by the false sincerity I injected into the affirmation of faith on my application.

They had, at least, a weight room, but when I entered it with my new lifting buddy—an incredibly Jesus-loving and incredibly built fellow-counselor named Kyle—I found that my strength had diminished considerably since I'd lost my college gym membership.

"If you wanna get big fast" Kyle advised me "What you gotta do is stop jerking off."

"Uh huh" I replied. The catholic mind sees the cessation of masturbation as a total panacea, and I had no plans to spend my 10 weeks surrounded by beautiful chaste little Christian virgins totally jerk-free.

"I'm serious." Kyle insisted. "Try it out. Boxers do it before every fight, haven't you ever seen

Rocky

?"

I was hoping to make some serious gains, and almost as a lark (and also because, sleeping with three other counselors in a room and knowing there was a line outside my thin shower door every morning, it was pretty hard to masturbate anyways) I didn't touch myself at all for the first couple weeks of camp. It actually worked, for whatever reason (Kyle hypothesized the retention of testosterone, and I, sports-medicine major that I was, had no idea whether said theory was plausible; I went with it). I had a lot more energy, and I used it to lift hard. That energy eventually stopped going away, though, even after a hard afternoon of lifting; it sort of built and built, with a sexual side that couldn't be denied or even entirely translated into aggression or physical exertion. I found myself looking at my female co-counselors with hungry eyes, and even, upon occasion, at some of our better-looking high-school charges. By the tenth week, I was about ready to burst, and the tenth crop of local kids was just unfair. The main reason for this being, of course, Maria St. Simone.

An entirely ethereal name, and she matched it. She was a wisp of a graduated senior, just barely 18, richly blonde hair down to her shoulders and bright blue ever-smiling eyes. She loved Jesus just about as much as any kid we'd had that year, praying often and brightly proclaiming, at table, things like "God sure has just blessed us with this meal today, hasn't he?" I always hated her for a moment when she said things like that; she'd sit up straight at the mention of God's name and her perky little tits would strain against her low-cut shirt. She was the only daughter of noted local general-goods magnate Carl St. Simone, and beautiful in the way that hard men's beloved and protected daughters usually are, thin but soft, all blonde curls and bright smiles, too popular to dress modestly and too demure not to carry herself self-consciously in light of that. It was amazing how innocent she could look in the tiny short-shorts that passed for standard attire among girls her age, amazing how I, a total stranger, was treated every day to an incredible length of leg and thigh, to a tight little ass fighting against the tight little shorts. I'd munch my awful plastic-tasting peanut butter sandwich, of which I'd eaten about nine trillion thus far that summer, and stare angrily at my under-table erection, commanding it to calm down.

The big spiritual experience that capped every week off and sent every crop of kids home happy and faith-filled was a walk alone in the woods. A sort of spirit-quest (without, sadly, any mescaline) for modern-day catholics, you were supposed to investigate the endless woods that surrounded the camp until you found a place that felt near to God, and then fall on your knees and have a totally private religious experience. At the end of five days of thrice-daily prayer, endless devotionals, and partial starvation, the kids were always in intensely spiritual moods, and it usually worked. Often kids got lost, of course, and we had to walk around calling for them until the little idiots came out of the woodwork.

It happened on Friday nights, which meant that I was preparing for my weekend off work. I always walked out to a little place I knew, an inexplicable clearing in the middle of some pretty dense arboreal growth, with soft grass and a great view of the moon (which, fortunately enough, was scheduled to be full on the Friday of 10th week), and smoked a bowl, communing with higher powers only if I forgot myself and had a couple extra bowls as well. It was the only good part of the week for me, and I was therefore displeased when I saw that I had been beaten to my spot this week by none other than Maria St. Simone herself, who was kneeling in the center of the clearing, praying, blonde hair shining in the moonlight, shivering a little because of the unexpectedly cool August night, and perhaps partly out of religious devotion as well

"Hey." I said, after watching quietly for a minute or so.

She looked back, a little scared in a cute pouting

teenagerish

way. "Hey" she said. Very polite. I stepped towards her and she stood up, hands behind her back, ready to be addressed by her counselor. I approached, and she took a step back unconsciously. I approached again and she once again retreated. My strides were larger than her own timid backwards steps, though, and soon enough I was upon her.

I slipped my right hand around her waist, gentle but insistent, flexing my forearm in order that she should feel my strength. She yielded instinctively after a bare second of conscious resistance, pressing up against me, against my hardness but also against the rest of me, so that we could both feel the contact between penis and stomach and yet were allowed, socially, to ignore it. She looked up at me, full-on pouting now, flushed and submissive with some pre-feminist survival instinct which made her more desirable and desirous when afraid. I saw the innocence in her eyes and was filled with the overwhelming urge to shock her, to defile some little corner of her immaculately pure life. She was wearing a bible camp T-shirt and a tiny pair of nylon shorts, the seat of which I grabbed firmly. After ten weeks of abstinence, it felt just as I remembered the first female ass I ever grabbed feeling—Kimberly Robeson's, under the bleachers when I was 14. Amazing, firm but somehow still soft. I gave a squeeze, unable to help myself, and she sucked her breath in, quivering and trembling with fear like a rabbit surrounded by dogs, trying to move her ass away from my hand but succeeding only in pressing harder against my shaft. She laid her head on my breast in an ancient, mute supplication:

Take gently, if you must take.

I hadn't intended, initially, to do much more than I already had, but when I was pressing her right up against my manhood, when I felt how much damage my size would do to her tiny, thin little body, I was lost. Hand on her shoulder, I shoved her downwards and she collapsed to her knees. I unbuttoned my jeans, and here she closed her eyes, denying their witness, and began to pray silently. In the bright moonlight, I could just make out her mouth forming the words it knew so well:

blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your...

and so on. She didn't open up her beautiful blue eyes again until my erection, a solid eight and a half inches of hungry steel at this point, was tickling her lips. She looked up at me, pleading but too scared to make any words, and all that came out was a little moan:

uh-uh-uhhhhh.

I smiled and my cock gave a throb. "Open up, sweetheart." Never breaking her pleading, desperate eye contact, she slowly opened her mouth and I slowly introduced my twitching granite member. It felt divine, of course, but I was more interested in what she felt.

The taste, the size, the reality of my dick in her throat overwhelmed her, and she began crying silently, tears pouring out of a sad but beautiful face unwracked by sobs. I had both of my hands on the back of her head, and thrust my hips powerfully forward twice, holding her head cruelly still with all my strength as the back of her throat was rammed. She gagged violently, but didn't puke—I couldn't imagine her ever vomiting, couldn't imagine a body as perfect and pure as hers producing something as filthy as bile. Her crying intensified, with small gasping sobs now that sent tiny shivers across her face but weren't strong enough to render it unattractive. I took one hand off of her skull and used it to remove my cock and then with that same cock wipe away some of the pouring tears, wetting it just a bit and smearing pre-cum under her eyes. Satisfied that I was sufficiently lubricated and leaving the rank powerful smell-taste of my cock lying in her throat and mouth and jammed out through her nostrils, I bent over, and unceremoniously pulled her shorts and panties down to her ankles. She stepped out of them like a good girl, and stood with her legs slightly spread, eyes wide with fright and fixed unblinking on my tumescence. I slipped my pants down all the way and stepped out of them, kicking away my flip-flops, and then took off my shirt. There I was, a not unimpressive avatar of male power at 6'2 and a ripped 215, breathing heavily and eyeing her little waxed (a spa day with the girls, no doubt, perhaps her mother, and it had been suggested and after all, it felt almost indecent not to finish the job if she was to keep her legs scrupulously hairless) pussy. She looked as if she might faint.

"Take off your shirt and bra." I commanded her. She was stunned, uncomprehending. "Take them the FUCK off." I repeated, and the swear word shocked her into cooperation. She took off the shirt and stood for a moment in the black and white polka-dot B-cups before reaching back and undoing them with one hand, holding them up with the other before folding her arms in their place. I reached over and slapped her, lazily but with enough force to knock her face sideways and rattle her teeth a bit.

"Don't play games. Don't try to deny me." She nodded, arms at her side, tears drying now, her face pale as milk except for the large red handprint on the right side. Her breasts were the kind of breasts you only get at 18, not huge but perfectly shaped, with happy little perfect pink nipples quivering joyfully in the cool breeze, totally unaware of how god damn tempting they were, and she was more beautiful than woman had any right to be and oh god oh god this this was what had been taunting me all week. I grabbed her thighs and upper back, swept her off her feet, and laid her on the grass, forcefully but not ungently in acknowledgment of the ancient natural covenant that now governed us: I could have her body freely if I spared it while taking it. With no further hesitation I entered her, one hand to the ground holding my weight from crushing her, one around the back of her neck to hold her steady. She was damp but not soaked, and I still had some spittle on me; it was enough. Her tightness yielded to me slowly, I insisted only gently, and nothing was damaged but her hymen, which I felt give way before me. She clasped her legs around me and her arms as well, nails safely pointed outwards, desperately giving every ounce of affection she had out now in the hopes that some might possibly be granted in return. She accepted me to the hilt, letting go a soft little yelp when it bumped, bonily hard, into her swollen clit.

I was now snorting like a bull preparing to charge, and as I withdrew she felt a little shock of pleasure, totally unexpected, jolting her nails downwards into my skin. As I paused for a moment then briskly inserted the rest of my length again, she went crazy, scratching my back into shreds in her ecstasy. As I fucked her, twisting the weapon in the wound I'd made, she began shivering again with a joy scarcely distinguishable from the fear that she'd felt earlier. The thought of her as a dirty slut after all, a masochist of some sort, to whom pain was and always had been pleasure, raised a Sade-esque double-edged emotion in my own body, at once anger and arousal, and I gripped her cruelly, offensively tight once again, bruising the back of her neck badly and slamming myself into her as far as I would go and then frantically reversing that I might attack again. It was only here that I realized I had after all an opponent, not a victim; with that mysterious power hidden so deep beneath the veneer of fragility that it may never in a lifetime emerge, she resisted me by accepting me, surrounding me, giving until I burst. The harder I fought, the more easily I was encompassed, until finally I, on the brink of being vanquished, lashed out once more with such force that her own ultimately feminine wall of will was smashed, that pleasure poured forth and filled her, unexpected, only a trickle at first but then an exponentially increasing flood, until her toes twitched and her eyes rolled back in her head. Victory was mine, and as the foe was falling I too surrendered to the little death, content with the battle's result, carried limp on a short sharp shallow little pleasure-spray of my own right beside Maria, out to sea on a burning ship. She lay next to me, astonished. She'd been through a revelation of her own; no doubt she was seeing visions even now.

"Maria. Suck my dick." I said, resisting the urge to euphemize with clean it off or some such in order that she have no pretext for not understanding. Without hesitation, she curled around towards it, cautiously took it (not quite rock-hard anymore, but by no means flaccid) in her mouth and began slowly, so slowly, to explore its length with her still-sore throat, intrigued by the way its taste had changed from sour, sweaty man-stench to a tangier, saltier one with the addition of blood and cum for her to lick up. She went to it with something of a will, not ravenous but not reluctant, and yet I sensed she was not ruled by the experience, that she was thinking of something else. She confirmed my suspicions when she curled her body around oh-so-innocently so that her pussy was spread just in front of my mouth, imagine that.

"Slut." I said, and as I stand here today, the shiver she gave as the word ran over her cunt was of pleasure. I smiled.