The Chosen

In Pine Valley, faith was the air people breathed. The church bell marked the rhythm of their days, and on Sundays the pews filled with families who nodded approvingly at one another across hymnals.

The sanctuary of their Church was filled with the murmur of hymns fading into quiet, the congregation turning expectant eyes toward the pulpit. Pastor Lowell spread his arms wide, his voice carrying over the wooden pews.

“Brothers and sisters, I bring you exciting news. Our fellowship has agreed to take part in an exchange with our sister church in Africa. For one month, a member of their congregation will come to live among us, and in return, one of our own shall travel to them, to share in worship, to learn, and to strengthen the bond of faith across oceans. I am sure you will all agree there is no man in Pine Valley who could represent us better than Brother Roger Whitfield.”

The words drew a ripple of nods and murmurs of assent. Roger rose to his feet, shoulders square, chin high, accepting the recognition with a measured nod. At thirty-eight, he was widely regarded as one of the congregation’s most dependable men. He served on every committee, spoke with authority at meetings, and always stood at the pastor’s side when decisions were made. Where others faltered, Roger’s convictions never wavered.

By his side, as always, was his young wife, Christy, smiling dutifully as the congregation clapped. She folded her hands in her lap to still their trembling. At twenty-six, she was the very picture of a respectable church wife, blonde hair pinned back, pale blue dress pressed and modest. Yet no amount of modesty could soften the curves that God had blessed her with. Her body and her beauty, drew glances she wished she could ignore. She had grown used to hiding her body as best she could, and to bowing her head in prayer afterward when shame burned her cheeks.

She loved her husband and his strength of conviction, though his manner left little room for softness. Their marriage was orderly, faithful, proper — and marked by one shadow. For four years they had tried to conceive, waiting each month for the blessing that never came. Roger never doubted, assuring her God’s time was not man’s time, but Christy sometimes lay awake in the quiet hours, her heart aching with the thought that perhaps it was her fault.

A week later, the house stood still on the eve of Roger’s departure. He had packed neatly, his suits pressed, his Bible carefully laid atop his case. That night they knelt at the edge of their bed, as they always did, and Roger’s voice rose steady and deep in prayer.

“Lord, I thank You for the path You have set before me,” he intoned, hands clasped tightly. “Keep me safe as I serve You abroad, and watch over my wife in my absence. Guard her heart, guard her body, guide her days. And if it be Your will, Lord, bless us at last with the child we have prayed for, that our home might be full of joy in Your name.”

Christy whispered Amen, her eyes closed, though her throat ached as she said it. She wanted that blessing more than anything. She wanted to believe. That night, when they climbed into bed, Roger reached for her with the solemn determination of a man fulfilling a vow rather than savouring his wife. His kisses were brief, perfunctory, his movements steady but mechanical as he eased himself inside her. Her body clenched around him, desperate for more friction, more weight, more fire than he ever gave. She bit back a sigh as his shaft filled her in name only, her inner walls stretching just enough to remind her of what she lacked. Every thrust was shallow, almost polite, leaving her slick with need rather than satisfied.

They had lain together so many times like this, hoping each act might finally bring the child they prayed for, yet never lingering in the heat of one another’s bodies. Christy turned her face into the pillow, willing herself to feel more than the hollow ache left behind when he finished quickly and folded his hands upon his chest in silent prayer. She lay awake afterward, staring at the ceiling, her body restless, her thoughts uneasy, the unspoken hunger twisting low in her belly.

The next morning, the pastor’s car idled in the drive as neighbours gathered to see Roger off. He shook hands with each of them, his pride evident. When he came to Christy, he pressed a firm kiss to her lips, brief but certain, more like a benediction than a lover’s farewell. “You’ll be well looked after,” he said. “They say, the person I am exchanging with is a great man.”

She forced a smile, blinking fast, and stepped back as he climbed into the car. Some unease at the idea of sharing their house with a stranger had crept in, but she had prayed to God for guidance and strength. Then the van rolled away, and her husband with it, and the house felt larger than it ever had before.

The following day, Christy stood on the porch as a church elder’s car pulled up. From it stepped the man who would be living under her roof.

Isiah was twenty-two. His face still carried the smoothness of youth, his eyes shy, his smile hesitant as he adjusted the strap of his worn bag. But his body told another story entirely. He was tall, broad through the shoulders, thick with muscle that pulled at the seams of his simple shirt. When he lifted his case from the car, veins ran like cords down his strong forearms, and the fabric clung to his chest in a way that made Christy’s breath falter.

She had expected someone older, a man of Roger’s maturity, a stern church elder from afar. Instead she found herself staring at someone barely more than a boy — yet already so clearly a man in ways her husband never was.

“Ma’am,” he said softly, lowering his eyes in deference, his voice deep with a rhythm unfamiliar to her ears.

Christy swallowed, her hands twisting against her skirt. “Welcome,” she managed, though her voice trembled more than she meant it to.

He shifted his bag, then extended one broad hand. “Isiah, ma’am.”

Her own hand looked small as he took it, his grip firm but careful, his skin warm against hers. The brief contact sent an unexpected shiver racing up her arm.

“Christy,” she said quickly, pulling back before the heat lingered too long. “You must be tired from your journey.”

He gave a small shake of his head, the faintest smile curving his lips. “The travel was long, but not too hard. Hard things… I can endure.” The words fell heavy between them, carrying a weight she felt low in her stomach.

She cleared her throat, retreating toward the door. “Please… come inside. I’ll show you your room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Isiah said, his voice dipping lower, his eyes meeting hers for just a moment longer than politeness allowed.

The air between them thickened as she turned, leading him into the house. Christy swore she could feel his gaze on her back, sliding over the curve of her hips, the sway of her dress, the line of her legs. Heat flushed her skin, shame chasing it just as quickly, and she shook her head to clear it. This was a man of God, she reminded herself firmly, not of sin.

The Ritual

The days that followed slipped into a rhythm that surprised Christy with its ease. She had worried about the awkwardness of hosting a stranger, but Isiah was not only polite, he was eager to help.

Half his days were spent at the church. Sometimes he shadowed Pastor Lowell, sitting in on meetings, helping with the youth groups or Sunday school, other times assisting with repairs or leading prayers in the midweek gatherings. Christy would see him leaving in the morning with his worn leather Bible tucked under his arm, returning in the late afternoon with dust on his boots and a quiet glow of satisfaction in his expression.

Yet when he was at the house, he could never sit idle. Where Roger left tasks for weekends or for hired hands, Isiah noticed them on his own and set about fixing them without being asked. One morning Christy found him outside, crouched low by the garden fence with tools scattered around him. The posts that had leaned for years, half-rotted, were now upright, packed firm with fresh earth. Another afternoon she returned from errands to discover the sagging door of the wooden shed had been rehung and the hinges oiled, swinging smoothly under her hand.

“You didn’t need to do this,” she told him once, standing in the doorway as he worked with his shirt hanging loose from his shoulders.

He glanced up, sweat streaking his temples, and gave her a simple shrug. “It needed to be done,” he said, his tone quiet, matter-of-fact. Then his eyes returned to his work, leaving her oddly unsettled.

Most striking of all was the lawn. Roger complained of it every summer but only hired someone to mow it when it grew too wild for even his pride to ignore. Isiah, though, seemed to take pleasure in the work. He moved with steady strength, the push of the mower drawing deep lines across his chest and arms. By the time Christy noticed him through the kitchen window, his shirt was stripped away, tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, sweat glistening as it ran down the planes of his body.

She lingered too long at the glass, her hand hovering over the dish she was drying. The hard flex of his shoulders, the ripple of his stomach, the way his back narrowed to his waist — it all left her throat dry. Only when he bent low to empty the grass catcher did she realise she had been staring. She startled back from the window, pressing the dish to her chest as though caught in the act.

Heat burned her cheeks. She told herself it was only curiosity, only appreciation for his youth and strength. But her body knew better, her body pulsed with something closer to hunger. The prayer that fell from her lips felt feeble against the ache already stirring low in her belly. She set the plate down and whispered a prayer under her breath, the words rushed, desperate to wash away the guilt that clung to her.

At dinner they always bowed their heads before eating. Roger’s prayers had been long, measured, each phrase chosen with weight. Isiah’s prayers were different — brief, low, words spoken in a voice that rumbled deep in his chest. There was a softness in the way he gave thanks for the food, for the roof over his head, for the company at the table. When he said amen his eyes lifted to hers, dark and warm, and Christy’s fingers tightened around her fork.

As his gaze held hers, it faltered just for a breath, slipping lower to the outline of her chest before darting back up. The dress she wore was plain, one of the regulars in her modest rotation, yet a little tighter than the rest across her breasts. Even a man of integrity like Isiah could not help but notice the gentle rise, the curve that pressed faintly against the fabric. Christy braced for the familiar sting of shame that always came with another man’s glance — but it didn’t come. Instead, warmth spread through her chest, a strange, dangerous thrill taking its place. For the first time, she found herself wanting the look to last longer.

“The food… it is always so good here. You must be the reason.”

The compliment was spoken simply, with no hint of flirtation, but Christy felt it bloom in her chest, warmer than anything her husband had said at the table in years.

In the evenings they would sit in the living room, the glow of the lamp between them. He asked questions about America, about how the towns worked, about the endless roads and stores, about her life before she was married. She hesitated at first, then surprised herself by telling him small truths she had never shared with Roger — how she used to dream of traveling, how she sometimes missed painting, how she felt most alive when she was outdoors. Isiah nodded as though each word mattered, his gaze steady, his silence heavy with understanding.

His curiosity was gentle, not prying, and when she answered, he listened. Really listened. Roger often told her what to think, what to believe, but Isiah let her words unfold without judgment.

It was a small thing, she told herself, nothing more than good manners. Yet each night, when she retired to her bedroom alone, she felt the weight of his presence lingering in the quiet hall. Her body was restless in a way she had not known in years. She prayed harder, longer, clutching at her folded hands, but the images that came were not of her husband’s face, nor of the future child they hoped for.

They were of broad shoulders gleaming with sweat under the summer sun, of strong hands smoothing wood into place, of a voice whispering thanks in the dark.

It was after supper one night, the plates cleared and the lamps turned low, when their conversation wandered where Christy rarely let it go. They sat across from one another, the quiet stretching companionably between them, when Isiah’s voice broke the silence.

“In my village,” he said, his words thoughtful, “children are a gift a man prays for all his life. To have many sons and daughters… it is the sign that God has blessed you most of all.”

Christy’s chest tightened. She folded her hands together on the table, eyes tracing the wood grain rather than his face. “Roger and I… we pray for that too. Every night. We’ve tried, but…” Her voice trailed into a thin thread, her throat tight. “The Lord hasn’t chosen to bless us. Not yet.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the clock ticking. Then Isiah leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze steady. “Do not think it means He does not hear you. In my people, we follow the Bible now, yes. But we still keep some of the old ways. The elders, they say that the path to fertility is not only prayer. It is ritual. A sacred way to call God’s blessing to the womb.”

Her breath caught. “A ritual?”

He nodded, solemn. “It is simple. Fire, water, words. The touch of faith. We believe when it is done with a pure heart, God listens closer. He hears. He answers.” His pause lingered, heavy with suggestion. “Would you wish me to show you?”

Christy’s instinct was to refuse. The very idea felt foreign, frightening. Yet something in the earnest gravity of his eyes, something in the ache of her empty arms, made her pulse hammer. She nodded faintly.

Isiah rose. He came to her side, and for the first time his hand closed gently around hers, warm and strong. “Come,” he said. “You must bathe. Your body must be cleansed. Then you must be dressed in the purity of white — a dress, a robe, nothing else. I shall prepare, and meet you in the garden.”

Her mouth went dry. She nodded again, unable to find words.

Alone upstairs, she filled the tub and slid into the water, her skin prickling as if every nerve had awakened. She washed slowly, thoroughly, her mind racing with the strangeness of what she was doing. When she dried herself, she chose a soft white bedgown, satin clinging to her damp skin. It was thin, too thin — the shape of her nipples stood sharp against the fabric, the dark golden curls of her pubic hair, visible in the lamplight. She tugged the robe tighter around her, but nothing could hide the way her body showed through.

She stepped barefoot into the garden. A small fire burned steadily, throwing sparks up into the night. A wooden chair faced the flames, beside it a clay bowl, a bundle of feathers, and a carved staff. The sight of it all sent a shiver down her spine. She was alone, the cicadas loud in the trees, the fire snapping.

Then Isiah appeared.

Her breath caught. He wore a crown of feathers that cast shadows over his face, streaks of ochre and white painted across the broad expanse of his chest. His skin gleamed dark and powerful in the firelight. The only clothing he wore at his waist was a straw sheath, bound with leather cord, that swung as he moved. It was meant to cover, but it failed.

The shape beneath was monstrous, obscene in size, the sheath straining to contain it. Each step made it sway side to side, heavy, pendulous, alien to Christy’s eyes. Her lips parted soundlessly, her chest rising and falling too fast. She had seen men unclothed before, her husband’s thin shaft stiff with duty — but nothing like this. The sheer weight of it made her dizzy, heat rushing between her thighs until she feared the wetness would betray her through the gown.

He said nothing at first, only gestured for her to stand before him as he took his seat by the fire. His eyes lingered on her gown, the way it clung to her breasts, the faint outline of her womanhood beneath. Then he began to chant, low and rhythmic, words in a tongue she did not know.

He dipped his fingers into the bowl of water, sprinkling droplets into the fire. Steam hissed upward. He rose, circling her slowly, his hips rolling, each step made the sheath lurch heavily from side to side, the sheer mass beneath impossible to ignore. Christy’s eyes betrayed her again and again, drawn to it, transfixed. She pressed her thighs together, shame and hunger coiling in her belly.

He stopped before her. Wet fingers touched her brow. “For the mind,” he murmured. He pressed them lightly to her lips. “For the breath.” Then his hand spread across the soft plane of her stomach, his palm warm, his thumb brushing just below her navel. “For the womb.”

She shuddered, breath breaking, nipples straining against the satin. His chant deepened, hips swaying as he prayed, the bulge in the sheath jutting forward each time. Christy stared helplessly, the firelight flickering over the thick outline, her own body betraying her as wetness slicked between her thighs.

At last he lifted his gaze to the sky, his hand still firm on her belly. “God will hear,” he said in English now, voice low and husky. “His blessing will come. The womb will open.”

And then the heavens split.

Thunder cracked so loud it shook the earth beneath her feet. Lightning tore jaggedly across the sky, the wind rising in a sudden howl. Christy cried out, clutching her robe closed around her. “Oh God… we’ve done wrong. He’s angry.”

Isiah caught her hand, steady and sure, his eyes burning in the firelight. “No, Christy,” he said with quiet certainty. “This is His answer. The storm is His voice. He has heard you. He has heard.”

Another bolt of lightning lit him from head to toe — feathers, paint, and the monstrous sheath swinging between his thighs. Christy’s knees trembled. She had never felt so terrified, so alive, so undone.

The rain poured as if heaven itself had opened, drenching them both before they could reach the house. Christy’s gown clung like a second skin, satin turned sheer, her nipples taut beneath the fabric, the dark golden pubes a shadow in the glow of lightning. Isiah’s painted chest gleamed wet, the straw sheath plastered against him, swinging heavy as he moved.

The Wild Storm

Inside, the storm snarled louder, the lights flickered and died. Christy gasped, clutching the robe tighter to her body.

Isiah’s gaze faltered, not by accident this time. It dropped to the swell of her breasts, the sharp peaks of her nipples pressing through the wet satin. For a breath he let it linger, then lifted his eyes back to hers — steady, unashamed. Christy did not look away. Her own eyes betrayed her, sliding down the breadth of his chest, over the painted ridges of muscle, to the impossible weight straining the soaked sheath at his waist. Heat flooded her face as she forced her gaze back up, meeting him squarely. Neither spoke, but in the charged silence something passed between them — unspoken curiosity, unspoken admiration, and the first dangerous taste of understanding.

“Do not fear,” Isiah said softly. He lit candles one by one, their glow spilling across the walls, then stacked logs into the fireplace. Soon the storm outside was answered by the crackle of flames within. Heat licked against her damp skin, the room filled with shadows and light.

Christy wrapped her arms around herself. “I should change,” she whispered, ashamed of how much her body showed through the gown.

“Not yet,” Isiah answered, his eyes lingering on her before rising to meet hers. “The ritual is not finished. We must drink the blood of Christ and give thanks.”

From his bag he drew a bottle of communion wine, pouring it into a carved wooden cup. He lifted it first to his lips, then offered it to her. Christy’s hands trembled as she took it. Their fingers brushed — his warm, hers shivering. She drank, the wine heavy and rich on her tongue, and when she lowered the cup, his eyes followed her mouth.

She felt it, heavy as a touch, the way his gaze lingered on the glisten of her lips. Her tongue darted to catch the last drop of wine, and the small motion seemed to tighten the space between them until the air itself felt alive.

They sat on the rug before the fire, close enough that their knees touched. The storm battered the house, but the glow of the flames pressed them together, the heat mingling with the warmth of the wine that pulsed through Christy’s blood.

Isiah took her hands in his, bowing his head. His voice was deep, resonant, each word sinking into her chest.

“Almighty Father, the blood of Your Son runs in us. Let it quicken this woman’s body. Let her womanhood be opened, not closed. Let her sheath welcome a worthy sword, that seed might flood her and life may grow. Bless her, Lord, with the gift of children, the gift of joy. Amen.”

Christy shivered as though the words themselves had touched her skin. Her thighs pressed together, the ache between them fierce. She tried to fix her eyes on the fire, but the moment he said sword and sheath, her gaze flicked lower. The impossible, obscene and yet fascinating weight between his thighs. Heat surged through her body, whether from the wine, the fire, or the sight of him, she could not say.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “For your words. For… making me feel safe. For making me feel like…” Her throat closed around the rest. She swallowed, tears pricking her eyes. “Like a woman.”

Isiah’s hands tightened around hers, his gaze burning. “Because you are,” he said simply. “You are meant for blessing, Christy. You were not made to be empty.”

Her chest rose and fell too fast. Breathless, she leaned toward him before she could stop herself. Their lips met — soft at first, a trembling brush. She pulled back, eyes wide, horror dawning. “Oh God… I’ve sinned.”

But Isiah only cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “No. The sin is not yours,” he said, steady as stone. “The sin lies with the man who left you empty. You were made to be filled. To be cherished. To bring forth life. That is no sin.”

Something broke inside her then, something years of restraint had held back. With a low, desperate sound, Christy pressed her mouth to his again. This time there was nothing hesitant in it. Her lips opened, her tongue sought his, the taste of wine and fire thick between them. Her body pressed to his painted chest, the heat of him searing through the wet gown.

The storm roared around them, the fire flared high, and Christy kissed him as though it were the only way to breathe.

The fire roared, throwing shadows up the walls, and the storm’s fury rattled the windows in their frames. But Christy barely noticed. All she felt was Isiah’s mouth on hers, his hands closing around her waist, the press of his body against the soaked satin that clung to her curves. Her knees weakened beneath the weight of it all — the wine, the heat, the storm, and him.

He lowered her gently onto the rug before the fire, his painted chest gleaming above her, the feathered crown dark in the flicker of the flames. Christy gasped, the back of her gown falling open as she sank to the floor, her hair spreading around her face. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, then his mouth claimed hers again, hungrier now, deeper. She arched against him, clutching at his shoulders, trembling with need.

Isiah broke the kiss only to trail his lips along her jaw, down the hollow of her throat. His breath was hot, his tongue teasing her pulse until she moaned. His hands tugged the satin gown aside, baring her breasts to the firelight. Christy flushed, instinct tugging her arms up to cover herself — but he stopped her, gently pulling her wrists away. His gaze burned over her bare flesh, reverent yet ravenous. For years she had hidden herself from glances, hunched shoulders and high necklines to smother the shame. But under Isiah’s eyes, that shame twisted into heat. She wanted him to see her, to consume her with his gaze, to make her body worthy of such hunger.

And then his mouth closed around her nipple.

Christy cried out, the sound torn from her without thought. Roger had never touched her like this, never lingered to taste or tease. Isiah’s tongue circled, slow and wet, then flicked over the tight peak until she writhed beneath him. His hand cupped her other breast, squeezing gently as he suckled, and Christy’s body arched like a bow. Shame pricked at her, but it was smothered beneath the fire in her blood.

He kissed lower, across the soft swell of her belly, down to the edge of the gown that clung to her hips. Christy’s breath came fast, her thighs pressing tight together. “Isiah…” she whispered, half-plea, half-warning.

“Trust me,” he murmured against her skin. He eased the gown higher, exposing her thighs, the curls at the juncture of her legs glistening in the firelight. His hands parted her gently, reverently, and before she could protest his mouth was there.

Christy gasped, her back arching, her hands flying to his shoulders. His tongue slid through her folds, hot and unyielding, licking deep and slow before circling her clit with maddening precision. She had never felt anything like it — Roger’s touch had been perfunctory, brief, never here, never this. But Isiah devoured her as though she were holy, as though her pleasure itself were an offering.

Every stroke of his tongue sent jolts sparking through her, sharp and sweet. She could hear the wet sounds of his mouth on her sex, could smell her own musk mingling with the smoke of the fire. It was indecent, filthy — and she wanted more, wanted him buried deeper, wanted to drown in the worship of his mouth.

“Oh God,” she sobbed, clutching at his hair. Heat exploded through her, rolling waves of ecstasy that stole her breath. Her thighs trembled, her hips bucked against his mouth, and still he licked and sucked, coaxing her higher. Her cry was raw, animal, nothing like the polite whimpers she had given Roger in the dark. It tore from her chest like truth itself, her whole body shaking as if some locked part of her soul had just been freed. The orgasm broke her wide open causing her to shake violently, her body seizing, and then collapsed back onto the rug, tears streaking her flushed cheeks.

Isiah rose slowly, his mouth glistening with her taste, his eyes dark and hungry. He bent to kiss her again, letting her taste herself on his lips. “Your body speaks,” he whispered against her mouth. “It tells you what it needs. Listen to it, Christy. God made you to feel this.”

Christy’s chest heaved, her body still quaking with aftershocks. She forced her eyes open — and then she saw it.

At some point, Isiah had untied the straw sheath. Now his cock stood fully hard, jutting from his groin like a weapon of flesh, thick as her wrist, veined and pulsing, impossibly long. Eleven inches of monstrous beauty, gleaming in the firelight. Christy froze, her breath caught in her throat. It looked carved from stone, a pillar of virility, heavy and unyielding. A gift from God Himself.

Her first thought was that no woman could take such a thing. Her second was a treacherous ache whispering that she must try, that she must feel it stretch her until she broke apart. Her pussy clenched at the sight, a hollow ache that begged to be filled, stretched, conquered.

Her thighs clenched, her body pulsed, her lips parted soundlessly. She felt the wetness gush between her legs anew, her womb aching with sudden, desperate hunger. “It’s… it’s beautiful,” she whispered, the words torn from her before she could think. Her eyes drank it in, terror and awe and lust twined together until she could hardly breathe. “I want it,” she confessed, her voice breaking. “I want it inside me.”

Isiah’s chest heaved, his hand stroking down the length of his cock as though to soothe the ache. “Then you shall have it,” he promised.

Her heart stuttered. Panic tangled with need. “But… a condom. You must. My husband has some, upstairs.” Her voice shook, frantic, torn between fear and desire. “Please. We must…”

Isiah nodded, though his brow furrowed as if the word meant little to him. “Show me,” he said.

Christy scrambled up, her body still weak from climax, and hurried to fetch the box from Roger’s nightstand. She clutched it in trembling hands, returning to the fire-lit room where Isiah waited — cock in hand, hard and glistening, the fire casting shadows over the monstrous length.

Her pulse hammered. The wine burned in her veins. The storm shook the house. And Christy, trembling and breathless, knew she was about to cross the final threshold.

Christy’s hands shook as she opened the box, the storm rumbling through the walls as if God Himself bore witness. She fumbled one of the foil packets free, tearing it open with trembling fingers. Isiah watched with curiosity, his cock jutting thick and obscene from his groin, veins pulsing in the firelight.

“This will keep us safe,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. Her cheeks burned. Safe from sin. Safe from consequence. She pinched the rolled latex between her fingers, turned toward him, and swallowed hard. “You… you’ve never used one before?”

Isiah shook his head, brow furrowing. “We have no such thing in my village.” His voice was steady, curious, not ashamed. “How does it work?”

Christy’s face flamed hotter. “It… it covers you. So no seed can spill.”

At that, his eyes darkened, his hand closing around his shaft, stroking slowly from root to tip. “To stop the seed?” he murmured, disbelief in his tone. “Why would a man do that?”

Her lips trembled. She didn’t answer. She simply reached out and placed the ring of latex over the fat head of his cock, trying to roll it down. It stretched, squealing tight, fighting against the girth of him. She tugged harder, breathless, but halfway down the shaft it tore open with a sharp snap.

Christy gasped, staring at the shredded strip clinging uselessly to his thickness.

Isiah chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest. “It is too small.”

Flustered, she grabbed another. “Hold still,” she pleaded, her voice shaking. She tried again, her fingers slipping against his slick heat. The condom stretched impossibly thin, every vein showing through, until with a pathetic little pop it burst open, curling back against her hand. Her stomach flipped, her belly tightening hard, as though her body itself rejoiced at the failure. A whisper of relief stole through her, traitorous and hot: there would be no barrier, no veil, only flesh.

Christy froze — then a laugh bubbled out of her, breathless, hysterical. She pressed her forehead to his chest, giggling against her will. “Oh God… oh, it’s ridiculous,” she gasped. She lifted her head, her laughter trembling into a moan. “You can’t be tamed. You’re not meant to be tied up, bound, and restricted like this.”

Her hands stroked down his cock, bare and glistening, thicker than anything she had imagined. Awe shone in her eyes, mingled with a fevered hunger. “This thing… it was built for purpose.”

Lightning split the sky outside, the fire roaring high, shadows dancing around them. Christy stared up at him, her chest heaving, her face flushed with surrender. She let the torn latex fall from her fingers to the rug.

“I give up,” she whispered, her voice breaking with need. She sank back onto the rug, hair spilling around her, legs parting wide. The satin clung to her curves, soaked through with arousal, her pussy glistened shamelessly, the firelight catching on the slick sheen that ran down her thighs. She felt exposed, obscene, holy all at once. Laid out like an offering before the fire, her body trembling in equal parts terror and need.

She spread herself open with trembling hands, her eyes never leaving his. “Please, Isiah… tonight, I am yours.”

The storm howled. The fire cracked. And Christy lay waiting, trembling, her body open in invitation, ready to be split open and filled raw by the man God Himself had sent to her.

Isiah lowered his massive frame over her, his chest brushing her breasts, the weight of his body pinning her to the rug. The blunt crown of his cock nudged her folds, slicking through the wet heat that streamed from her. Christy whimpered, her back arching, the contact alone nearly undoing her.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Please, I need it.”

Isiah’s gaze locked on hers, his breath slow and heavy. “It will be much,” he warned.

“I don’t care,” she gasped, tears stinging her eyes with need. “I want it. I want you.”

He pressed forward.

The swollen head spread her lips apart, a burn of pressure that stole her breath. Christy’s mouth fell open in a cry, her nails biting his shoulders. He pushed a little deeper, the thick crown breaching her fully, and she sobbed aloud, her thighs trembling around his hips. She could feel every vein as it forced her apart, the thick crown dragging her lips wide, the stretch burning like fire. Her cunt wept around him, soaking him, her body screaming it was too much even as her hips rocked forward, begging for more.

“Oh God… it’s too big,” she panted, shaking her head — but her hips lifted against him, betraying her. “It hurts, it… oh—”

Isiah kissed her cheek, his voice rumbling like thunder. “Your body will take me. God made your body for this.”

He fed her inch after inch, slow, relentless. Her walls clutched helplessly around him, slick and tight, every ridge of him dragging against nerves she had never known before. Each new stretch was unbearable, exquisite — her body fluttering between pain and ecstasy. She gasped with every push, her hands clenching his back, her thighs locking around him as though to anchor herself to the storm.

“God, oh God,” she sobbed, her head thrashing. “It’s too much, it’s too much—”

And yet still, she wanted more.

Her womb ached, hollow, begging to be filled. The deeper he pressed, the more her body opened, slicking, yielding, pulling him in. She could feel the veins pulsing against her walls, the weight of him spreading her wider than she thought possible. With a guttural cry, she clutched him to her, forcing herself down onto him, desperate to be made whole.

At last his hips pressed flush to hers.

Christy froze — then screamed.

She felt split in two, stuffed so full her body didn’t seem her own anymore. His cock was a pillar inside her, stretching her walls so wide she swore she could feel every ridge, every pulse of blood beating through it. The weight of him pressed down on her sex, grinding against some hidden place that lit her nerves on fire. She had thought sex was duty, a chore, a prayer in the dark — but this was revelation. Her cunt gripped and spasmed around him, desperate to hold the impossible thickness that filled her to bursting. She was overwhelmed, wrecked, ruined… and she never wanted to be put back together again.

And then it broke.

The pleasure detonated inside her, tearing through her like lightning. Christy convulsed beneath him, her cry wild and raw, louder than the thunder that split the sky outside. She felt it flood down her thighs, obscene, unstoppable, as though her body had broken open to pour itself onto him. Her whole body seized in violent spasms.

Hot gushes poured from her, soaking his cock, dripping down her ass, puddling on the rug until she was half-convinced she was bleeding light itself. Her body convulsed like it wanted to milk him, to drag his seed deep into her belly and keep it there forever. Her vision whiting out as she clung to him, nails dragging welts down his back.

“Oh God, oh God—Isiah!” she cried, her voice shaking the room. “Yes, yes—!”

The orgasm went on and on, rolling waves that left her shaking and drenched. She had never climaxed like this before — never even dreamed of it. Roger’s couplings had been shallow thrusts and polite sighs in the dark, but this — this was sex as revelation, her body broken open by the fullness of a man’s cock.

She collapsed back against the rug, tears streaking her cheeks, her body trembling and leaking around him. Her thighs quivered, her belly fluttered, her sex still clenching around his impossible girth. She had become something new in that moment, something raw and alive.

Isiah kissed her damp cheek, murmuring low, “Feel it, Christy. Your body was waiting for this. You were made to be filled.”

She turned her face toward him, her lips trembling, her eyes fever-bright. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “More.”

Then louder, desperate, clawing at him: “Please, Isiah. Take me. Don’t stop. Take me.”

Isiah withdrew, slow at first, the long drag of his cock pulling fire through her swollen walls. Christy gasped, her cunt clenching around the retreat, desperate not to lose him. When he pushed back in, the stretch was brutal all over again, her body crying out with every nerve.

Then he began to move.

The rhythm started steady, his hips rolling with measured power, driving his cock deep into her again and again. Christy clung to him, nails biting his back, gasping with every thrust. But soon the steadiness broke — the storm outside seemed to seep into his body, into hers, until the fire crackled in time with the pounding of his hips.

He fucked her harder.

Each thrust slammed her against the rug, the weight of him splitting her apart, the fat head battering places deep inside she had never felt touched before. Her cries turned to screams, ragged and raw, echoing off the walls. Every time thunder cracked, her own wail answered it, louder, wilder, as though the storm and her body were locked in competition.

Christy had never known sex could be like this. She bucked beneath him, meeting every thrust, her hips snapping up to take him deeper. Her body no longer recoiled from the size — it craved it, demanded it, begged to be broken again and again. She spread herself wider, clutched at his ass, pulled him harder into her, sobbing with lust.

“Yes, yes—oh God, yes!” she cried, her voice breaking into a scream. “Fuck me, Isiah. Harder. Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop!”

The wet slap of their bodies filled the room, each pounding stroke driving gushes of slick from her. The rug beneath them was ruined, drenched with her release. Her thighs shook uncontrollably, but still she begged for more, her voice ragged with need.

Lightning flared, illuminating the sweat on his painted chest, the veins standing out on his arms as he drove into her with brutal force. Christy’s head thrashed against the rug, her hair plastered to her face with sweat and tears.

“I love it!” she screamed, unashamed. “I love your cock—God, I love it! I was made for this!”

The words should have shamed her, but instead they thrilled her. She wanted him to hear them, to know her truth — that she was a lustful woman whose body was built to be ruined by big cock.

Isiah groaned deeply, his cock swelling even thicker inside her. “You take me like no woman ever has,” he growled against her ear. “You were built for me.”

“Yes,” she sobbed, her legs locking tighter around his waist. “Built for you. Built for this.”

The words freed her from the last shreds of shame. No more silence, no more hiding. She was a woman who loved being fucked, a woman who needed to be stretched, pounded, filled. And she would never go back.

Orgasm tore through her again, harder than before. Her body clamped around him, milking him, soaking him with fresh gushes of wetness that splattered against his thighs. She screamed with it, the sound louder than the thunder that rattled the windows, her voice raw with release.

Isiah’s thrusts grew erratic, urgent. She felt him swell even more inside her, his cock pulsing, his breath breaking. He tried to pull back, but Christy’s legs snapped tight around him, locking him inside.

“Stay inside me, please!” she cried, her heels digging into his back. “Every drop — it belongs in me. Give me your seed!”

Isiah roared as the first hot gush erupted into her pussy. Christy screamed with him, her body convulsing around the flood, her orgasm ripping through her in waves as she felt the torrent fill her to bursting. It was too much, it was everything — the force of it flooding her womb was like nothing she had ever felt, her belly fluttering as though life itself had just been poured inside.

She clutched him tight, sobbing, her voice breaking with joy. “Yes—oh God, yes, give it to me, all of it—!”

The storm outside raged, but it was nothing compared to the storm within her. Her body shook violently, her mind blank with ecstasy, every nerve alight as she came harder than ever before.

And when it was done, when Isiah lay heavy above her, still buried deep, his seed thick and warm inside her, Christy knew she would never be the same.

No more shame. No more silence. She had been remade in fire and storm, in sweat and seed.

And she loved it.

Her New Belonging

Christy stirred as the storm’s fury gave way to silence. The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing embers, their warmth flickering weakly across the ruined rug beneath her. Her body ached in places she hadn’t known could ache, her thighs sticky, her skin marked by sweat and seed. She shifted and felt it — the wet heaviness between her legs, the slow seep of what Isiah had left inside her.

A shiver ran through her. For a heartbeat, guilt pricked at her chest — the echo of every sermon, every whispered warning. But it vanished as quickly as it came. What replaced it was a steady, glowing satisfaction. She had been filled, split open, remade. For the first time in her life, she understood what it meant to be alive in her own body.

Her gaze slid to him.

Isiah lay beside her, sprawled on his back, the fire’s dim light gilding the ridges of his chest. His breath was deep and even, lips parted in sleep. One arm lay across his head, the muscles shifting subtly with each rise of his chest. Below, his cock rested heavy against his thigh, half-slack yet still immense, thick as ever. Even softened, it dwarfed Roger’s straining best by three times over.

Christy’s lips parted, her mouth watering with want. The ache between her thighs sharpened, heat pooling low in her belly at the sight of him. She had never hungered like this — not the dutiful longing she’d once known, but raw, clawing desire.

She slid closer, unable to stop herself. Her fingertips brushed the length of him, light as a feather. The thick flesh twitched beneath her touch, swelling slowly, as though her hunger had summoned life back into it. Christy trailed her nails along the shaft, watching it rise, watching the head swell and darken as blood rushed to fill it. Her breath caught; her belly clenched. She had thought last night was a fever, a storm that could never come again. But here it was, in her hand, hardening for her.

She wanted it inside her. She wanted it now.

Without hesitation, she swung a trembling leg over him, straddling his hips. The satin of her gown clung damply to her skin, but she peeled it away, baring her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She held him upright with one hand, guiding the thick crown to her wet and ready pussy. A gasp tore from her as she sank down slowly, inch by inch, her walls stretching all over again around the impossible girth.

Isiah stirred with a low groan, his eyes fluttering open. When they focused, they found her above him — golden in the morning light, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, lips parted in ecstasy.

“Christy…” His voice was thick, reverent. His hands rose, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing her taut nipples. “You are… the most beautiful of God’s creations.”

She rocked her hips, sliding deeper, her body clenching tight around him. “Oh God,” she gasped, her head tilting back, her hair spilling down her spine. Her hands braced against his chest, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath her palms. “This… this is what I was made for.”

She moved harder, riding him with desperate rhythm. Each rise and fall drove him deeper, the wet slap of flesh filling the air. Isiah groaned beneath her, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her as she bounced on his cock. Her breasts jiggled with each thrust, her nipples stiff against his palms as he squeezed and worshipped her body.

Christy moaned openly, shameless now. She bent down to kiss him, her mouth hot and urgent, her tongue tangling with his. Their kiss deepened as her hips rolled, her cunt fluttering around him, milking him with every movement.

Isiah’s hands gripped her hips, guiding her as she rode him, his cock stretching her over and over. Their mouths broke apart, her cries ragged and breathless.

“I can’t—” Christy gasped, her hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat. “I can’t control myself. I need this. I need you. Oh God, this sin—” Her voice cracked into a sob, her hips snapping down harder, chasing the friction like an addict. Shame should have silenced her — but nothing could stop the truth ripping from her throat.

Isiah’s eyes burned into hers, his voice a growl beneath the storm of their bodies. “No, Christy. This is no sin. The lust inside you was made by God. He put it in you for this moment. For me.”

Her walls clenched tight around him, her moan breaking into a sob.

“You were made to be filled,” he went on, thrusting up into her, his words rough with reverence. “To be bred. To bear life. That is your destiny.”

Christy cried out, throwing her head back, her nails digging into his chest. “Yes—yes, breed me, Isiah. Make me a mother. Fill me!”

His hips bucked up into her, slamming her down to the hilt. Christy screamed with the pleasure of it, her body breaking into convulsions as orgasm ripped through her again. She clawed at his chest, her cunt soaking him, trembling as she rode out the wave.

Isiah gritted his teeth, his cock swelling thick inside her. His hands gripped her tighter, pulling her down as he thrust upward, filling her with hot spurts of seed. Christy cried out with joy, her head falling back as she felt him flood her womb again, thick warmth pouring into her.

They clung together as their cries faded into heavy breaths, their bodies slick with sweat, their mouths seeking each other’s again in softer, lingering kisses.

This was no storm. This was no frenzy. This was something deeper, something Christy had never known — sex not as duty, but as communion, as worship.

When she collapsed against his chest, still full of him, still trembling, she knew without doubt: she would never again live as the silent, dutiful wife. She had tasted lust, love, and desire, and she would never let it go.

————

The days that followed blurred into something Christy scarcely recognised as her life. Pine Valley moved on as it always had — the bell rang for service, neighbours waved from porches, Pastor Lowell preached with steady conviction. Outwardly, Christy smiled and nodded as she always had, the dutiful wife of a churchman. But inside the walls of her home, a new Christy was born.

She no longer hid her body. The high collars and loose blouses remained in the wardrobe, forgotten. Instead she slipped into dresses that clung to her waist, fabrics that swayed against the curve of her hips. When she bent in the kitchen, she no longer fretted about the outline of her breasts. When she caught Isiah’s eyes lingering, she didn’t look away. She leaned into it. She fed on it.

Their routines became rituals of their own.

In the mornings, she often woke in her marital bed, with his cock hard against her thigh, heavy and hot. Sometimes she stroked it with lazy reverence until he stirred, groaning into her hair, and then rolled her beneath him. Other times, she did the thing that she had never once done with Roger, and took Isiah in her mouth, hungrily. Her lips strained around the swollen head, jaw aching as the thick flesh spread her mouth wide. Saliva ran down her chin, soaking the sheets, but she only moaned, swallowing more of him with a devotion that shocked her as much as it thrilled her.

The bed creaked with their joining, the sunlight spilling over her bare breasts as he filled her again, her moans mingling with birdsong at the window.

In the afternoons, when he returned from the church with dust still clinging to his boots, she was waiting. Once in the kitchen, flour on her hands, she bent over the table and let him lift her skirts, her gasp turning to a scream as he drove into her from behind. Her cheek pressed against the wood, flour dust smearing across her skin as his hips battered her ass. The smell of yeast, sweat, and sex filled the air, the bread forgotten as her own body became the feast.

They were shameless. The rebuilt shed behind the house — he fucked her against its fresh timber, her nails clawing the wood as he filled her, her cries carrying out across the garden. Once, in the pews after hours, the church silent but for the echo of her sobbing moans, she knelt astride him with her dress bunched around her waist, his cock splitting her open beneath the stained glass. The coloured light painted her bare breasts in crimson and gold as they bounced with every thrust, her moans echoing like hymns in the vaulted silence. She gripped the rail as though in prayer, but the only worship on her lips was his name. Isiah!

Christy had become insatiable. The woman who once turned her face into the pillow, ashamed of her own desire, now craved every inch of him. She begged him to use her anywhere, in any way. On the rug, on the bed, on her knees in the hallway. She wanted his hands on her breasts, his tongue between her thighs, his cock flooding her womb until she trembled and gushed around him.

And he gave it to her. Always. With strength, with tenderness, with the reverence of a man convinced he was carrying out God’s will.

“Each time I fill you,” he whispered, his hand spread wide across her lower belly as though he could already feel it swelling with his child, his thumb stroking in lazy circles. “I plant life. God made you for this, Christy. To be blessed.”

Her belly fluttered at the words, her legs tightening around his waist. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice wrecked with bliss. “Bless me again.”

Days passed, weeks. Christy glowed with it — her skin flush, her smile secret, her body softer, fuller, made new. When neighbours stopped by, they remarked how radiant she looked, how happy. She only smiled, folding her hands demurely, hiding the ache between her thighs that never truly faded.

At night she no longer prayed for a child, as she knew for all certainty there was already one growing inside her. She only whispered thanks, clutching the sheets still damp with their coupling, her body humming with life and seed.

She was no longer Christy Whitfield, the quiet church wife. She was Christy — woman, lover, vessel, shameless and unrepentant. And every day she grew hungrier still.

The Miracle

Seven months later, Christy sat in the doctor’s office with her husband’s hand folded tightly around hers. The white walls smelled of antiseptic, the hum of machines filling the silence. Christy’s belly rose full and round beneath her dress, a curve she could no longer hide. Her palms smoothed over the swell unconsciously, her heart thrumming with awe every time she felt the faintest stir of life inside her.

Roger’s eyes were damp as he looked at her, his grip trembling where it held her own. When six months ago, he had first returned from Africa, weary but proud, he had been met with two revelations: First the doctor’s letter telling him that due to an impossibly low sperm count, he was incapable of fathering children. And just a few days later, Christy’s breathless announcement that she was with child at last. The clash of news might have broken another man with confusion. Roger only fell to his knees, clutching her waist, his voice breaking as he declared it a miracle.

“Just as Sarah bore Isaac,” he whispered that night, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Just as Elizabeth bore John. God has blessed us, Christy. He has done the impossible for us.”

Now, as the doctor entered with a smile and the chart in hand, the miracle only grew.
“Mrs. Whitfield,” the doctor said warmly, adjusting his glasses. “You’re not carrying one child, but two. Strong heartbeats. Two healthy boys.”

Roger let out a choked laugh, pressing his forehead to Christy’s shoulder. “Twins,” he murmured. “Two sons. God has doubled our blessing.”

Christy smiled, though her throat tightened around tears that weren’t only joy. She pressed her hands to her belly, imagining two dark-skinned boys, broad-shouldered, strong — their father’s sons in every way. Her heart ached with longing as she remembered the storm, the firelight, the way Isiah had filled her with seed until she shook apart. At night, when Roger prayed in thanksgiving, Christy prayed too. Not for children. Those prayers had already been answered. She prayed for Isiah — for one more miracle, that God might bring him back to her.

It was Roger himself who gave her the answer. That evening, as they sat by the fire with tea cooling between them, he reached for her hand. “The elders wrote to me today,” he said, his voice alight with excitement. “The church has arranged for Brother Isiah’s return here on a permanent placement. They’ve asked us to host him once more, to give him a home in Pine Valley.”

Christy’s heart leapt, her breath catching in her throat. Her body answered before her lips could — a rush of heat between her thighs, her nipples tightening under her dress. The ache was instant, fierce, as though her body itself recognised the news. She would be his again. She would be whole again. She forced a hand to her lips to hide the tremble of her smile, but her eyes burned with tears that glowed in the firelight.

“God is good,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

Roger nodded fervently, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. “All the time.”

Christy closed her eyes, her palms spreading wide over her belly where life quickened and grew. The miracle was already inside her, but now she knew: God was not finished. He was bringing her miracle back.

The End.