“Bastard!” Sister Geraldine exclaimed, as she let the lifeless corpse drop to her feet.

“What’d he do?” asked Sister Melanie, yanking her own knife from her victim and wiping the blade on her habit.

“Prick spurted all over my wimple!” came the reply. “Totally ruined it for the ritual.”

“Oh, yeah,” Melanie answered sarcastically, sliding her blade back into its sheath strapped to her calf above her stiletto heels, giving a flash of chocolate-coloured leg in the process, “I’m sure the Princess of Darkness will be really upset you got blood on your wimple. Honestly, Gezza, she’d probably prefer our clothes were soaked in blood! Or some other bodily fluid, I doubt she’s picky.”

“Ooh! Ooh!” Geraldine said jumping up and down in girlish excitement, her ample bosom and bottom jiggling enticingly beneath the shapeless clothing. “Do you think I should pee on it?”

Her accomplice rolled her eyes. “Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, all the way home, little miss piss piggy! You’re obsessed! Seriously, would it kill you to fuck without getting peed on once in a while? You know, a romantic evening of vanilla fisting or something?”

“Piss is my thing,” Geraldine said, looking crestfallen. “I always spank you when you want.”

“But that’s not every time,” Melanie began, but stopped when two more nuns rounded the corner.

“Bickering again, Sisters?” asked Sister Victoria, the tallest of the pair.

“No, Sister Tori,” Melanie said, meekly.

“Good,” came the terse reply. “Are we certain we’ve got everyone?”

“Yes,” answered a fifth nun with a disarmingly innocent face, coming from behind them. “I’ve checked twice. All dead.”

“Excellent, Sister Emma. Well, this is the door. The Sistine Chapel, currently hosting the Papal Conclave, one hundred and twenty cardinals electing a new pope. We shall perform the Summoning here. Move those bodies you two. We don’t want Her Infernal Majesty tripping over dead god-botherers on her grand entrance, do we?”

“Should we collect some blood?” Sister Geraldine enquired, dragging her charge off to the side.

“No need,” said Sister Melissa, stood next to Sister Tori and holding up a severed hand. “I took a trophy from one of mine.”

“Eww, gross Mel!” said Sister Melanie.

“Really?” replied Melissa in her Glaswegian accent. “After the things I’ve seen you do, a helping hand freaks you out? And don’t call me Mel! You’re Mel!

“Well, you know, I though we could use our last initials to differentiate, because yours is Cormack, and mine’s Beaton, so we could be Mel–”

“No! Not cunting Mel! It’s Melissa, or Lissa, or Sister-Please-Take-Your-Boot-Off-My-Neck!” She flounced forward and, after giving her trophy a vicious bite, began to draw a pentangle.

“Give up on the Mel thing, Mel,” Geraldine whispered to her friend, “she really hates it.”

“Why?”

“Some kind of childhood trauma connected with Mel Gibson’s accent in Braveheart. I know you want to pretend we’re the Spice Girls, but it just won’t work. For a start, you’d be Scary Spice, and you’re the least frightening of all of us. I still remember how you screamed when I showed you my pet spider.”

“That was twenty-five years ago!”

“But you’re still scared of spiders.”

“Yes, because some bitch put her tarantula on my head when I was five! Anyway, Mel B wasn’t really scary, she was just black, we could come up with a less racist nickname. Spank-Me Spice, maybe?”

“It’s ready,” Sister Melissa announced, cutting the three hundredth iteration of that discussion short.

“The let us begin,” said Sister Tori. “Form a circle and begin the incantation.”

The Satanist nuns joined hands around the red star on the floor and began to intone, “O Satan! Queen of our Hearts! Ruler of Hell! We entreat thee, come to us–”

“I thought you’d never ask,” came a voice like velvet dripping in honey from the shadows, making the nuns jump.

“Your Majesty!” exclaimed Tori, the first to recover. “How did you get here? We thought summoning you required an hour-long ritual!”

“Any other day, it would,” Satan replied, stepping forward to reveal herself to her acolytes, “but the Vatican was built on a Hellmouth – you know, like Swindon, or Sunnydale. Once a year, I am able to break through here into the mortal realm from sunset to sunset. I cheated today, and came early – I figured Satanic nuns on a murder spree was probably enough of a ritual to summon me.”

They gasped at her beautiful, curvy form as she approached them – the epitome of female perfection. Well, except for the red, scaly skin, glowing yellow snake-eyes, massive horns, cloven hooves and long, pointed tail that cracked the air like a whip behind her.

“Gorgeous, aren’t I? Do you like my dress? Genuine angel leather, I flayed it myself. It’s very hard to obtain, you know, with their great big wings flapping about. Softer than baby skin, come cop a feel.”

The women gathered round and ran their hands over their Mistress, all becoming instantly wet between their thighs.

“There will be time to worship me, my pretties,” Satan said, pushing them gently away. “We have an offer to make the gentlemen in there.”

The doors to the Sistine Chapel burst open and she entered, followed closely by her five followers, the heavy wood sealing shut behind them.

Stunned silence fell across the cardinals within, as the Great Adversary strode down the aisle and climbed the altar, kicking aside the paraphernalia of worship.

“Who do you think you are?” squeaked one of the terrified old men.

“You know in your hearts who I am, cardinals!” her soft voice caressed their elderly ears like a lover’s tongue, reaching even the furthest corners without appearing to raising it. “I am Satan, liberator of mankind! Lucifer, bringer of light!

“Whatever name you wish to call me, I come to you this evening with a Temptation. Even now, your inhibitions and learned denials of the ways of the flesh are being burned away. Between now and next sunset, you will give in to your darkest desires, but this is only a taste of the offer I will make you on the morrow.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan!” yelled a septuagenarian bishop in the third row.

“I’ll go wherever you wish, your Eminence,” Satan whispered in his ear, having appeared at his back, running her talons down his helpless chest to circle the tip of his tenting cassock. “From behind is my favourite way to take a priest.”

“But first,” she continued, back on the altar in an instant, “let me introduce you to my darling mortal Temptresses, the Horny Order of Saint Lilith!”

All five nuns in front of the dais whipped off their habits, to stand alluringly in what lay underneath. In the case of Sister Victoria, this was a black latex catsuit with holes cut for her hairless crotch and small but firm breasts, topped with another wimple, also of latex.

Sister Geraldine had kept her bloodstained wimple on, but wore a revealing network of leather straps over her voluptuous body. The words ‘Darkness’ and ‘Evil’ were tattooed in gothic script on the top of each tit, along with a disconcerting image of a goat’s head on her bare stomach, above a landing strip of trimmed ginger hair.

Beside her, Melanie had abandoned all her nun gear in favour of lacy, pale pink lingerie complete with matching, dainty dog collar, her multiple braids swept back over her shoulders. Melissa had also chosen lingerie, although she had retained her wimple. Hers was black with stockings, and she struck a rather less submissive pose with her lithe, tanned body.

The majority of lustful eyes in the room, however, fell on blue-eyed Emma. Her blonde pigtails were now freed from the head covering, the rest of her covered by a Catholic school uniform, if those schools would only allow stiletto heels to be worn with their white blouses and blue plaid skirts.

Finally, all five inverted the crucifixes around their necks, sending a horrified gasp through the priests.

“An aperitif to begin!” Satan declared, and clapped her hands. Wooden tables suddenly filled the centre of the Chapel, the Satanists sitting, standing or lying at intervals, beckoning to the priests. “You will need some straws,” Satan said, grabbing a Bible and throwing it in the air where it exploded, showering the bewildered holy men with neatly rolled tubes.

“Fuck it!” said the first bishop to give in, a white-haired, bearded man with glasses, “I’m going to Hell anyway after the things I’ve done!”

He walked up to Melanie, who pushed her chest towards him, a line of cocaine materialising on the exposed tops of her breasts. Putting the paper tube to his nose, he snorted the drug with far too much skill for an amateur, leaving not a spec of white on her brown skin. He let out a whoop, and pressed his lips to hers. That was all it took for the dam of repression to burst, and the combined centuries of self-denial flooded out of the congregation. Cardinals scrambled over each other to snort lines of Columbian marching powder out of Geraldine’s arse crack, lick speed from Melissa thighs, suck pink pills from Emma’s white panties, or bite blue ones from Tori’s boot.

Once the infernally enhanced drugs kicked in, blood flowed downwards to places where, in some cases, it had not been for decades. The women put their mouths to work on the resulting bulges, sending hymns of lust and depravity up to the figures painted on the ceiling.

The chapel was soon filled with the slap of flesh on flesh, the squelch of cocks plunging into cunts and arses already filled with five loads of cum, the moans of women fulfilling their Satanic oaths, and the groans of men getting their long-denied release. Only Tori was not buried in eagre, if sagging, bodies, having managed to separate from the flock those in need of a good flogging, and filled her corner of the chapel with cries of pain and pleas for more.

It took over an hour for the initial urges of more than a hundred repressed men over forty to be satiated, but eventually a lull settled across the now mostly naked crowd. The five women, somewhat dishevelled but equally satisfied, made their way back to their Mistress.

“Time to rebuild your stamina,” Satan announced, and clapped her hands once more. The table was immediately covered in a sumptuous feast. There were whole wild boars, swans stuffed with geese stuffed with ducks, and venison. Other plates boasted more exotic meats, such as seal, whale, and monkey brain. Alongside the freshest roast vegetables were bowls of unusual accompaniments, including otters’ noses, liberty cap soup, badgers’ earlobes, and Mongolian wolf dumplings.

“Tuck in!” the Dark Lady told them.

They did so with gusto. Abandoning any attempt at table manners, they shovelled their food into their gobs by the handful, not caring that half of it dropped out of their mouths. Mel and Gezza, along with some of the priests with similar submissive inclinations, were only too happy to do the rounds, licking up what they dropped from their chests and laps. The other three nuns circulated with bottles of the finest wines, plucked straight from the Vatican’s cellars, filling glasses, or when requested, pouring it straight down the thirsty bishops’ throats.

As the cardinals settled into their carousing, the five nuns joined the Archfiend at the altar, and replenished their own energy by kissing her hot, scaly body. As the leader, Sister Tori had the first taste of Her infernal cunt, nuzzling under the tight dress and extending her tongue to sample Hell’s finest vintage.

“Apple?!” she exclaimed in surprise.

“Naturally,” Satan laughed. “Surely you didn’t think Eve would have given up Eden just for a lousy fruit?”

They each took a turn lapping at the hellhole, to be rewarded with facefuls of black, oily, Satanic girl goo. Then, lustful energy coursing through their veins but the cardinals still indulging their tastebuds, they took to pleasuring each other, as they did every night in the convent. Their moans soon drew the attention of the table, earning cheers and whistles.

Satan waited until Mel and Lissa had climaxed on Tori’s fists, and Geraldine had brought herself off under a golden shower from Emma, before clapping her hands three times. The first cleared the dishes, the second cleaned the filth from the women, and the third made them appear on the table with new adornments.

“Dessert is served!” she announced, sweeping her hand over the women.

Geraldine and Mel sat bound back to back, the former under a chocolate fountain, and the latter under a custard one. The sweet liquids cascaded over their faces, naked breasts, and stomachs, to pool between their open legs, transforming them into an erotic, living sculpture. Fruit surrounded them for dipping.

Lissa had smeared an assortment of baked goods over herself. She already had a Nigerian and Australian archbishop by the hair, mashed into her breasts to feast on the cream and crumbs.

Emma, having retrieved her underwear, had filled it with an assortment of Skittles, Smarties and other sweets, giggling as she made her admirers extract their helpings without using their hands. It was impossible to believe she was the oldest of the five, so convincing was her schoolgirl act, at least until she had been flipped over to reveal the inverted pentagram tattoo at the base of her back.

Tori, of course, was serving her dish – pancakes with maple syrup – on her boot.

Eating sweet treats from the women’s bodies had the desired effect, and soon the table was a writhing mass of moaning flesh once more. With all participants covered in a thick layer of sticky food, it became impossible to tell who was fucking who – save Tori, naturally, since she insisted that her slaves lick up the smallest drop that fell on her outfit. Most of the priests had drunk enough that they didn’t care in any case, and stuck their pole in the nearest willing hole.

Whenever the women needed a break, they would slide their way out of the heaving mass, and make their way to Satan, overseeing all from in front of Michelangelo’s The Last Judgement. There, they would pleasure Her with their tongues for their black reward.

It was after one such break that Melissa, gently fucking herself with one of the discarded candles, remarked to Tori, “How have none of these old men died of a heart attack yet?”

“I will not allow it,” Satan replied, removing her own candle to suck black cum from it. “I am having far too much fun with them. They can come to Hell on their own time.”

“We need to spice things up a bit,” said Tori, who had not really been listening, but contemplating the depravity before her whilst idly flicking the wick that protruded from her cunt.

“Tell me what you need, my sweet.”

“Dildos,” she replied. “Lots of dildos.”

Rack upon rack of sex toys of every conceivable type appeared either side of them.

“Is this enough?”

“Yes, they should suffice, your Majesty,” Tori answered with a malicious grin. She strapped on a massive twelve-inch dildo, grabbed an armful of butt plugs and dongs, then headed back into the fray. Melissa took a while longer considering the selection, before selecting a Feeldoe and strutting towards her waiting fans.

Satan settled back with a hand between her thighs to enjoy the show.

Hours and another feast later, the light outside began to turn golden once more with the approach of dusk. Mingled aromas of sweat and other bodily emissions wafted up to the five-hundred-year old faces of Michelangelo’s masterpiece, who now looked down on a scene of blasphemous depravity.

“’ank ‘oo ish’er ’or ’ee” Sister Mel called around the dick in her mouth, as Sister Tori rained down blows on her bum with her riding crop as she passed.

Said passing took quite a while, as she was riding two gagged, crawling bishops, the toes of her boots buried in their arses. Nipple clamps attached to chains on each provided the reins to direct her steeds, and the drip of hot wax from the candelabra she held in that hand discouraged dawdling.

The cardinal who had just finished inside the submissive waited politely for the dominatrix to move on, then thanked Mel with ten hard spanks. He wandered off to observe his colleagues, allowing the next in line to slide into the sticky, matted hair around her twat. Finding his bladder somewhat full, he attached himself to the long queue leading to the wall where Sister Geraldine, together with some bishops who had a similar thirst to her own, had formed a human urinal.

On the other side of the chamber, a circle had formed around Sister Emma, the remnants of her uniform caked in layers of spunk. Whenever her mouth came empty, she would yell to the crowd, encouraging them to keep all her holes filled at all times.

“Let Jesús fuck you! Let Jesús fuck you!” cried the sexagenarian South American who was currently behind her, clearly delighted at finally being able to use that line. Every time he said it, he slammed his cock into her arse and jizz farted out noisily around it.

Nearby, Sister Lissa presided over those cardinals with a taste for their own sex as well as her own, slurping noisily at the topmost cock of a writhing pile of four religious leaders, each impaled on the one below, whilst she fucked a fifth with her strapless strap-on. Couples and groups waiting their turn had their hands, mouths or sphincters wrapped around each others dicks. Those who held no interest in the female form had scattered amongst the pews to scream and moan their adoration for each other’s wrinkly bodies.

On the altar, Satan Herself was having a threesome with the two most likely papal candidates, her scarlet body sandwiched between them. She rammed the point of her tail in each of their arses in turn as they filled her holes, interspersed with cracking it like a whip across their backs and buttocks. Unbeknownst to them, she had been cruelly holding off their orgasms for the past three hours.

When Satan finally relented and allowed her two archbishops to fill her with their seed, she pushed them off, and clambered onto the altar to watch the...