Redemption of the Demoniac Ass

Redemption of the Demoniac Ass

And as for the treacherous tunnel and back alley where the wicked gather to pollute and conspire, widen it with the ceaseless march of the righteous, that no deception or resistance to God's grace may remain therein.

--The Miracles of Jingles the Anchoress

The young woman glared at Father August with a visceral hatred. Even for the seasoned exorcist, the sight was hard to bear. When her devout mother had first brought her to church as a young girl, the father had been struck by her eyes, so dark, yet shining with curiosity. She had perhaps been a bit intense and assertive for a child, but her intelligence and keen observations had seemed to easily outweigh faults.

in Father August's sober judgment, those small faults had grown monstrous. Her intelligence was all turned towards escaping her her benefactors and thwarting the will of the church. Her observation skills were used to search out apparent flaws in everything, from doctrine and apologetics, to the prudent measures they'd taken to restrain her violent impulses.

Before she was delivered to Father August, she'd even managed to escape a less experienced custodian, giving him a black eye in the process. There was no denying it -- she was of the devil.

Whether she was directly possessed, or simply under the malign influence of human agents who sought to overthrow the divine order was of no concern. Let pedants and historians debate where free will gives way to possession -- to an experience exorcist like Father August, it was a distinction without a difference.

Even the wretch's appearance seemed to give credence to his interpretation. Not just the rage on her face, but the baldness of her head, which seemed to make her womanly curves seem exaggerated and obscene. True, it was the church itself who had shaved it (The practice aided hygiene, and tended to ease resistance in the more recalcitrant girls), but the church's job was to reveal the truth.

The Father signaled to his attendant to release the straps on Grace's arms and the gag, leaving her in a standing spreadeagle, with some modifications she would doubtless discover shortly.

"What did you do, you sick fuck?" she shouted petulantly, clenching her hands into fists, and straining against the restraints. Her eyes widened, as the choke collar around her neck tightened in response, and immediately ceased her struggle, gasping as the collar slowly loosened.

"I apologize for any discomfort, Grace," Father August said. "The restraints are for your safety as well as ours. Please refrain from struggling. If you keep trying to choke yourself, we may need to restrain you in a less comfortable position."

"Trying to choke myself?" she asked slowly, her voice trembling with disbelief. "You sadistic, disgusting hypocrigghhh!"

Father August turned momently and pretended to look for something on the desk behind his right shoulder. It would be unbecoming for the girl to see him smile. He picked up a book at random -- a generic-looking volume bound in maroon fabric -- and spun it in so that the cover and spine faced away from the girl.

It was a test, and he was gratified to see her green eyes follow the book as he walked behind her, trying to desperately to see what it was. That was progress. He'd had her under his aegis for less than 24 hours, and she already was beginning to associate church doctrine with correction. The devil in her was already on the run from holy scripture.

"A keen but independent intellect is like a rich house with an unlocked door, child," he said, reaching under his robe to palm a small injector. "The devil has come to plunder your gifts, and live high on your bounty. He takes great pleasure in corrupting a mind such as yours. Fear not: we will turn his pleasure to pain, and drive him from you."

Her round buttocks clenched as he injected her through the stylish wrap skirt, setting off a wave of outraged gagging and coughing. He reached for the key around his neck, and casually unlocked a large cupboard behind her.

"What did you do to me, asshole?" she gasped out over several breaths.

"What do you imagine I did to you, child?"

"There are only two of us in the room. Don't pretend you didn't just goose my ass, you sick fuck."

"You don't know how sad this makes me, Grace. Everything has become a coarse matter of flesh for you," he said, giving a large plastic bottle a pump before putting it on a table directly behind her.

"We try to save you from your worldly impulses, and you imagine we do it just to take advantage of you. That is what makes you such an easy mark for the devil," the father said, carefully working his right hand under the outer edge of the wrap..

"You want to talk to me about worldly impulses? My mother might have her head up her ass, but I can see right through your lies, and when I get ougghh!"

"When you pull forward you tighten the collar," he said.

The stubborn girl simply shook her rapidly reddening face, clenching her buttocks as she moved her hips as far forward as she could. Patiently, the father reached his left hand around her waist and pulled her backwards, persuading Grace to accept the first joint.

"Your.. your finger," she said in a hoarse whisper, squirming. "What are you-"

"Silence!" He commanded, and was gratified to hear nothing but gasping in response. She was still grasping too tightly at the tip of his middle finger, but he could see the drugs had already loosened her up somewhat. Even facilitated by worldly tools like pharmaceuticals, progress was still progress.

"It's a tragedy that you've become such a degraded creature who speaks and understands only vulgarity, but the church is adaptable. We answer the needy in their own language. Now, finished your thought,"

"My... uhhh," she grunted. "My thought?"

She sounded less certain than before, less angry and more disoriented. Father August pressed his advantage.

"Yes. Something about your devout mother and her posterior," he said, pressing his second knuckle inside her.

"Her... posterior?" she asked. "But your... your finger is-"

"Her 'ass,' in your crude language. Perhaps you aren't the educated young woman you seem to think you are."

"I know what the wuhh... word...." she trailed off as he began to flex his finger.

"The vulgarity of a demoniac. Everything is 'assholes,' or 'up the ass.' But demons are never quite as clever as they think they are. Your own words have shown me how to get through to you. To open the way to salvation," the father intoned piously, seating his finger fully inside her. He hooked it inside, moving his palm in a circle to test his control.

Her only response was a helpless little hissing squeak as she swiveled her hips in response. It was almost cute in a way, a trace of something likable and appealing in the poor, afflicted wretch. He repeated the gesture, as if idly stirring the ice in a tumbler.

"Now, am I correct that you have nothing to say for the moment, and are ready to get on with your cure?"

"Uhhh," she panted out. He waited for a moment, but she seemed incapable of speech, as if the devil had bound her tongue.

"Are you ready for your cure, child!" the father boomed, pulling back sharply to snap her out of her reverie.

"Yes," she said, her voice coming out in a sad little squeak.

"'Yes,' what, my child?"

He felt her clench around his finger as she forced the word out past her lips.

"Yes Ffffather."

"Very good," he said.

With his finger still inside her, he untied the wrap skirt, and watched her ass come into view, watching it clench and jiggle as he lightly curled his finger. Her skin was smooth and nearly free any blemish or mark, save for a tattoo of a butterfly on the left cheek.

He considered the creature she'd chosen to mark herself with. It began life as a loathsome caterpillar crawling and living by only its miserable wits. Then, it bound itself in a cocoon of its own creation and utterly destroyed itself, to be liberated as a beautiful symbol of God's grace.

It was a fitting symbol of her exorcism, eliminating any lingering doubt from the priest's mind. He pulled his finger out slowly and walked in front of her, delicately wiping it on the wrap skirt.

She stared at him. Her breathing was heavy but slow, eyes glazed, demeanor subdued. Her pale complexion was colored by a beautiful flush now. Another small sign, he thought, uttering a silent prayer of thanks. He'd expected the sex of such a profane creature to be bare, perhaps pierced. But the hair over her pink slit was merely trimmed.

Orderly

, he thought, momentarily pondering whether he should have it removed tomorrow.

"You seem calmer now, child. I believe the devil's hold is weakening. Don't worry, we will see this through together."

"I hope," she said slowly, quietly, "when you're in prison, every, uhh-" she scrunched up her forehead, losing her train of thought. The drug had that effect on the intellect, though it was usually only temporary. He was grudgingly impressed that she had even made it that far.

"You were saying you hoped something happens while I'm in prison?" he prompted.

She blinked.

"I hope every prisoner rapes your... your ass."

"Just once?"

She gave him a confused look, and he wondered momentarily if he'd given the right dose. He couldn't purge the demon while it slept. Still, Father August had plenty of experience improvising in such situations, and he knew a trick that usually worked.

He walked right up to her and pinched her lower lips between three fingers.

"Finish your thought, you devil bitch," he said calmly. "How long do you hope they rape my ass in prison?"

"Until they... they break you," she cried out, "and you can't, huh, hurt anyone anymore."

"And how long do you think it would take to break me forever, devil? One night of anal rape? One hundred?"

"I hope they do it for years!"

"It might take years for me, child. For you, I think it will take just a few nights."

Her face paled, the beautiful flush receding.

"Now," he said, pinching harder for emphasis. "We're going to-" his hand slipped, his fingers slick. Her wetness was an ambiguous sign. Perhaps it was a clue for that she was taking to her correction, but it could just as easily be a sign that the devil was changing his tactic -- making her enjoy her discipline. He couldn't risk rewarding the creature.

"I shall return soon to cure you, child," he said, wiping his hand on the skirt and tossing it over her head.

* * * * *

The Harlot's Shepherd was rarely used today. Even in the medieval era, it had been applied to perhaps 150 women in an average year, and barely a quarter of them were confined in it for more than two hours per day. But maintaining the church reliquary had its advantages for Father August -- you never knew when an old tool would come in handy to solve a new problem.

To untrained eyes, the device seemed quite obscene for an instrument of sacred expiation. With Grace doubled over inside, the whole thing looked a bit like a thick wooden candy cane with a large ass protruding in place of a hooked end. But for Grace's condition, Father August could think of no better tool, and he knew better than anyone.

A few years before, the church had attempted to modernize the device. Encasement in a wooden tube could set off claustrophobia, they said, and the leather bit built in was thought to be potentially dangerous or unsanitary or somesuch.

Father August, a traditionalist even by church standards, had surprised everyone by showing himself open to updates, and putting his considerable knowledge at the disposal of the commission to ensure it addressed the standards and needs of practicing exorcists. He'd spent much of the next year negotiating the details with his superiors.

The final product had the functionality and elegance of the original design with some undeniable improvements. Instead of a leather gag, the girl received an adjustable rubber prod between her lips, which could even be inflated to reduce noise without posing a danger to her teeth, should she bite down.

The inside was padded and equipped with medical-grade restraints for the occupant's comfort and security. This also allowed the device to pivot, placing the Devil's Delight (as the penitent's exposed pelvis was euphemistically called in official church guidelines) at whatever height and angle the priest required. A curved rail could even be added, facilitating penetration in either opening and at any angle, should the cure call for it.

Traditionally, a speaking tube was run from a hole near the girl's head, allowing the priest to communicate instructions as needed. The priest much preferred the modern electronic version, allowing him to communicate directly to her in-ear monitors via a lapel microphone. He could also play any sound she was able to produce through the room speakers, then mute her microphone when the grunting got tedious or distracting..

Of course, the decline in church authority had posed a few new problems. Back when the Harlot's Shepherd was common, getting women to willingly enter it was usually easy (assuming their bodies were flexible enough.) They knew it was a mercy compared to the other tools available to the church.

But for a girl like Grace who denied the authority of the church entirely, it could be more of a struggle. Even drugged, she'd put up considerable resistance, requiring further medication to get her fully installed and doubled over into position.

It was worth the effort. Her ass was thrust out perfectly, and her cunt already flowed beautifully like the tears of a penitent. There was no question that he was treating the end of her best able to see reason.

Father August flipped a switch, and the girl's snuffling breath played through the overhead speakers, punctuated by occasional gagged grunts.

"Can you hear me, Grace?"

The ass twitched slightly, and the breath hitched for a moment, but it might have been a coincidence.

"Would you like to come out now?" he asked.

"Yugh!" came the affirmative. It proved the audio was working, but the priest had no intention of listening to her wet guttural gagging every time he had a question. As was usually the case, church tradition upheld a more elegant solution.

He lubed up a device known as the Penitent's Clarion -- a small rubber bulb, attached to a tapered neck, culminating in a flared base. It more or less resembled a modern buttplug, but with an important difference: the device was partly hollow, with a column of air ending in a flexible diaphragm. The diaphragm, in turn, was mechanically coupled to a small bell. When she squeezed, it would make a soothing little chime.

There was some flexibility in church practice regarding the Clarion. In regions where the Harlot's Shepherd was traditionally mounted horizontally, it was considered less reliable than an erect male witness of good character. However, it was still retained everywhere, as it could be used during exercises where full access to the demoniac's nether regions is required.

"Relax please, Grace. You're almost setup."

Without further warning, he pressed the device against her rectum, her comical grunts and gags providing a momentary respite from the tension as she struggled against the inevitable. Father August smiled as the device settled in, admiring the flared base nestled neatly between her cheeks. It immediately began ringing.

"Alright, Grace. You can communicate with whoever is attending to you by squeezing the bulb in your rectum. Once for "yes," Twice for 'no.' If you have something positive to express, such as penitence, gratitude, or joy, you have my permission to squeeze it repeatedly."

She made a baffled sound in her throat, and he leaned in close to her ass ass, so she could hear the sound. she clenched experimentally, rewarded by the chime. The priest's trained eye caught the exact moment she worked out what he'd just put inside of her. A shiver worked through her hindquarters, accompanied by a dismayed little cough deep in her throat. He backed away to the side, knowing from experience what was coming next.

Sure enough, a little fart squeaked past the plug, and moments later, a stream of yellow liquid grew and arched from the Devil's Delight towards the drain in the floor, the little chime ringing in counterpoint to bewildered little sobs. He turned off the unpleasant and misleading sound from inside, focusing on the staccato ringing of the chime as he carefully wiped her clean with the skirt.

"Look at what you've been reduced to child. You drip for discipline, and piss and fart at the sound of a bell. Are you not ashamed?"

He toyed with a glistening lip, listening to the chime ring louder.

"If you value your soul, you should beg for correction."

He paused, listening. It was tedious work, but getting her to accept the medium of communication would make the rest much easier. But still, it kept ringing.

He started gently working his thumb around her clit.

"Wait, Grace, are you begging me to be harsh with you, so you may be free of your affliction?"

It took on a louder, staccato pattern for a moment, then slowed down, as she tensed, seeming to grasp that the message she was sending would have consequences. she didn't have complete control of it yet, but she was starting to work with him towards the first of many shared goals.

"Would spanking help? Yes, no, or harder?"

As first, it seemed like she tried to say, "no." There were a few short groups of chimes at the beginning, but when he counted them and announced, "harder," she confirmed it. he rubbed his thumb against her clit gently to provide some encouragement, her body using the bell to thank him.

Wondering if her attention was drifting, he moved closer so she could feel his breath on her lips in addition to hearing his voice.

"Would paddling help? Yes, no, or harder?"

Her answer was a bit confused this time, as she had never stopped thanking him for his encouragement. He moved his thumb off of her clit entirely, sliding it down towards her hole.

As he had hoped, she gave a good, strong squeeze when he pressed in (he figured she could give the second squeeze herself if paddling was too far.) However, it turned out, she but still seemed to feel she deserved more.

"Would flogging help? Yes, no, or harder?"

This time, her whole body spasmed, and she was so loud that he could hear her through the body of the Harlot's Shepherd, even with the microphone turned off. He immediately knew what mischief she'd gotten up to, and considered church doctrine on the matter.

Since the time of Saint Alura, Church doctrine had been very forward thinking on women who orgasm in the middle of exorcism rituals. The wording was a bit complicated, but essentially boiled down to, "be understanding, and let them recover," leaving it for each preacher to interpret.

Father August solved it with his characteristic combination of practicality, patience, and positivity.

"Good girl," he said, and gave her clit a chaste little kiss, briefly pausing to gauge her sexual excitation with his lips and tongue.

Unfortunately, the self-indulgent little demoniac seemed to take his friendly gesture as an excuse to prolong her little recreational break, and he chastised himself for letting his charitable spirit take him past the line between kindness and indulgence.

He tried giving her a gentle nip to bring her back to her senses, but with characteristic contrariness, she responded by shaking the whole machine and squirting in his face, her gurgling groans intruding quite rudely on the solemn atmosphere. He started to wipe his face on the skirt, then remembering himself, switched off his microphone and walked to the sink, pausing only to squeeze a few extra puffs of air into her gag..