And lower still… the shadowed delta of her pussy, bare and glistening, revealed with every slow, deliberate step. Charms—tiny, glowing sigils—winked along the lace, pulsing faintly with captured starlight as if she'd stepped from some forbidden grimoire made flesh.

She wasn't human. She was temptation conjured.

The smoke coiled around her ankles like worshipful serpents as she advanced, hips rolling in a rhythm older than time. Each sway made the lace part further, offering flashes of wet, pink skin between her thighs. The dim light caught the moisture there, making her arousal glisten like nectar.

She moved through the colored haze like a dark queen in her own underworld, every curve a challenge, every exposed inch of skin a blasphemy painted onto sacred silk.

I stood at the window, bare-chested, the silk pants riding low on my hips, staring out at the indifferent forest. I didn't turn. I didn't invite.

She would come.

She must come.

I felt her approach first as a cool disturbance in the smoky air. Then her touch—fingertips hovering just above my shoulder blade, not quite touching, sending shivers radiating across my skin like electrical whispers.

Finally, contact. Her nails scraped lightly, tracing my shoulders in lazy, possessive arcs, like a witch carving runes into my flesh. Each stroke was deliberate, a slow burn down my spine, mapping the muscles beneath. The feeling was both torture and revelation.

Her body followed, pressing close, not touching, enveloping. The heat of her bared breasts seared through the smoke to dance against my back. Her hips swayed, grinding the damp heat of her open robe against the curve of my ass in a silent, demanding rhythm. Her warmth spilled across the nape of her neck like a brand.

Every sway was a deliberate provocation, every brush of her lace-clad hips against me a prayer chanted into the thick, rose-colored gloom.

Her hands grew bolder. Fingernails raked down my flanks, leaving faint red trails, stinging paths that sang with sweet pain. They slid lower, tracing the sharp V of my hips just above the waistband, her touch hovering at the edge of the silk—a silent, excruciating promise.

Her breath, hot and scented with cloves and desire, fanned my ear as she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell.

In the rose-violet haze, Isabella hadn't just stepped into my chamber. She'd claimed it. The smoke bowed to her. The light bent for her. And as her teeth scraped the tendon where my neck met my shoulder, a sharp, possessive bite, I knew:

The sin was no longer bottled. It was uncorked. And it was pouring out, surrounding us, drowning us both. She was spell, witch, and sacrificial offering all at once. And the ritual had only just begun.

A note vibrated through the floor—a deep, resonant hum that seemed to coil around the smoke, turning the rose-violet haze into living sound. Isabella moved. Not danced. undulated.

I held her lance without turning and snapped it.

It fell and she obeyed...

Her hips rolled in slow, devastating circles, the black lace robe whispering against skin, gaped open to reveal her naked body with every sinuous motion. Her breasts swayed freely, nipples puckered tight in the cool air, the flat plane of her stomach gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat already. Between her thighs, her pussy— now bare, flushed, visibly wet—glistened with each gyration.

She faced the flickering gold platform, a dark altar in the haze. Her hands slid up her own ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, lifting them slightly—offering them to the dim room, to the shadows, to the gaze she knew burned into her back.

She wasn't just dancing; she was worshipping with her body, a litany of lust poured into motion.

The nun headpiece remained—wicked, defiant crowning her hedonism. Each sway was a prayer, each arch of her back a blasphemy whispered to an unseen deity. Her hips ground hard, then soft, mimicking the rhythm of rough claiming, head falling back, lips parted in silent cries of imagined ecstasy.

My breath hitched. My auras and the low pheromones pulsed low in my gut, hungry. My cock twitched, thickening rapidly against the silk pants.

The music swelled, adding layers—strings like sighs, a bass beat like a frantic heart. Isabella spun, the robe flaring like dark wings. When she stopped, she was closer. Her eyes locked onto mine—dark, fathomless pools of need. Her hands went to the robe's tie. With agonizing slowness, the knot loosened. The lace whispered down her shoulders, slithered over her hips, and pooled at her feet.

Naked now but for the wimple. She knelt. Not in submission, but in devotion. Her hands rose, cupping the heavy weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing the aching nipples, then slid down her ribs, over her stomach, fingers dipping between her thighs.

She gathered her arousal, slick and hot, and painted it over her own skin—trails of glistening moisture on her inner thighs, her belly. An offering. She crawled forward on her knees, smoke swirling around her like incense, hands outstretched.

Her fingers closed around my wrists.

"Touch," she begged, voice raw. "My pleasure godling needs his temples consecrated."

I didn't need to be told twice. My hands lifted, large and soft against her soft skin, covering hers where they still held her breasts. I squeezed, feeling the weight fill my palms, the rigid points of her nipples pressing into my palms. She gasped, back arching, thrusting them deeper into my grasp.

Her head fell back against my stomach, the wimple brushing my skin, her breath hot and ragged. "Yes... like that... touch your temple..."

Before I could deepen the contact, the smoke at the periphery shimmered. Figures emerged.

Vivienne. Anastasia.

Dressed identically to Isabella—black lace robes gaped open, exposing proud breasts, flat stomachs, bare, glistening sexes. Only the stark white wimples remained, framing their faces like halos. Their eyes held the same dark fire as Isabella's.

They moved with synchronized grace, parting the smoke like curtains, flanking me on either side. The ritual expanded.

They knelt beside Isabella, a trinity of devotion. Vivienne's hands joined mine on Isabella's right breast, her touch cooler, more deliberate, possessive. Anastasia mirrored her on the left, her fingers tracing the curve beneath my hand. Their eyes met over Isabella's head—a silent communion of shared worship.

Then the music shifted again, lower, darker, a primal rhythm of drums and breath with darkness that whispered sin and sex.

They descended.

Not with hands. With mouths.

Vivienne pressed her lips to my chest just above my heart, a soft, open-mouthed kiss. Her tongue flicked out, tracing the hard muscle, tasting the sweat-salt of my skin. She lingered, suckling gently, a slow, deliberate baptism of sensation that sent jolts straight to my core.

Anastasia mirrored her on the opposite side, her kiss higher, near my shoulder. Her touch was more precise, colder almost. lips brushing the taut line of my pectoral, tongue swirling in a controlled circle, mapping me like a cartographer of sin.

Isabella, still kneeling, her hands trapped under ours, leaned in. Her mouth found the center of my sternum.

Her kiss was hotter, hungrier, more desperate than the others. Her lips parted wider, tongue laving a broad, wet stripe up my chest, collecting the sweat Vivienne and Anastasia had left, devouring their offering. She moaned, the vibration echoing against my ribs, her breath scorching.

Three mouths. Three distinct temples of pleasure.

Vivienne began to move lower, her lips trailing a wet path down my ribs, her tongue dipping into the grooves, tasting, worshipping. Each press was a claim, a brand. Anastasia followed suit on the other side, her kisses lighter, faster, covering territory like a conquering army, nipping lightly at my side, leaving faint red marks that bloomed under her attention.

Isabella stayed anchored at my sternum, her mouth working feverishly, sucking, licking, her moans growing louder, more pleading as her hands fought to squeeze her own breasts beneath mine.

"Peter... god... let us wash you clean... let us cleanse you with our devotion..."

Their mouths met just above the waistband of my pants. Vivienne and Anastasia pressed their cheeks together, their tongues extending, lapping at the sensitive skin just below my navel, their saliva mingling, hot, slick, obscene. They looked up at me as one, eyes dark with shared lust and purpose.

Vivienne's voice was a husky whisper against my skin. "Washed clean by your priestesses."

Anastasia's tongue flicked out, tracing the waistband. "Anointed by your devoted."

Isabella's hips rolled against the floor, seeking friction, her voice breaking. "Consecrated... to our god..."

Raw desire screamed in my veins. The combination of the taboo imagery—nuns worshipping—their synchronized mouths, the sheer, unapologetic hedonism of their devotion—it was too much.

My cock was now like a steel bar, straining painfully. My whole body vibrated with the need to take, to claim, to consume this blasphemous offering.

My hands flew from Isabella's breasts, tangling in Vivienne's and Anastasia's hair, fisting the dark strands at their napes. I growled, a raw, animal sound. They weren't just washing me. They were stoking a fire threatening to consume us all. The ritual wasn't just beginning.

It was about to explode.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.