Father Beckman begged for God's mercy when his cock went stiff and nearly burst a hole through his glorious robe. This hadn't happened to him since he was in his twenties and fucking his way through the 90s, because “Hey, it was the 90s," which explains why he could vividly imagine all of the cum-inducing positions he would destroy her in—if he weren't a priest.

But at fifty-eight years of age, and as a man of the cloth, those days were long behind him. As for his cock, which was about as thick as a pillar candle, it was erect and long ahead of him when he followed the obvious sounds of a sexually pleased woman down the corridor and halted his size twelve shoes in front of the open door to his office.

It was sometime after midnight when the heart-pumping thought raced across Father Beckman's mind and startled him awake. He had completely forgotten to photocopy and email a signed document that was pertinent to a church trip happening next week. And if the travel coordinator didn't have it by 9 a.m., there would be no outing.

This is why Father Beckman called a few times to see if his midnight-hours nun could have handled it, as he was in bed. When she didn't answer, he assumed that perhaps she was occupied, or simply couldn't hear it ringing over the industrial machines the custodians used to buff the floors.

St. Bart's was known to keep its doors open for anyone, at any time, except between the midnight hours of 12 a.m. – 3 a.m. as the staff cleaned. But nothing could've prepared the father for what was beyond the door frame to his open office.

The sight of Sister Dreary's twenty-six-year-old petite body, supple breasts, hairy bush, and gaped asshole, bouncing up and down in reverse cowgirl on the custodial supervisor's dick, as she jerked his two subordinates to a filthy finish on her face, rendered the father breathless, panicked, with sin on his mind ...and inside his pants.

Lord knows, he too wanted deep inside of Sister Dreary's easily accessible anus that repeatedly swallowed and spat out the supervisor's throbbing pipe. But what Father Beckman really wanted, was to baptize his lustful dick inside of her hole-y waters that she was stupidly saving for Jesus, he thought to himself. And at that moment, he knew that he was a blasphemous wreck who deserved to be smite. Immediately.

This is why, Father Beckman quickly gestured the sign of the cross, and was quieter than a cotton ball landing on a cloud when he backed out, caught his breath, and decided that he would go and have a lengthy confession session with God, and seek guidance on how to proceed whereas Sister Dreary was concerned.

Father Beckman ruminated on this for six days, and rested his inner demons on the seventh when he accepted that it was his cross to bear and that one day he will have to stand before God and explain why he chose not to put a stop to Sister Dreary's sexscapades. Because the fact is, Father Beckman chose to knowingly continue to sin and watch every night as she had her way with the cleaning crew.

It always began at the stroke of midnight in the confessional booth, which had a cleverly concealed glOry hole, and would end in Beckman's office, on his desk, in the way he caught her the first time.

After another week of secretly watching Sister Dreary's face contort as she got fucked out of her nun tunic and into a state of multiple anal orgasms, the father had a moment of post-nut clarity when he tugged hard on the blessing between his legs and splattered a heavy load of cum down to the floor and his loafers. Beckman was firm that he was officially done with this Devil's business and fired the custodians without cause, it being an at-will state and all.

Sister Dreary didn't think it more than cost-effective church business, and female support, when Waxing Women, an industrial cleaning service run by women, took over the contract the day after Ramone and his cousins were fired.

And that was that, or so Father Beckman thought. He had reached true enlightenment as to who exactly Sister Dreary was, when he arrived at the church after midnight to check in with the new staff, offer any assistance on their first night of work, etc. But deep down, Beckman self-righteously wanted to see that he had corrected his mistake, by no longer getting himself off to Dreary being piped by fuck-hungry men. And in that respect, he had succeeded.

But little did he know, it was the sister who had control of the strings, and that she would vocally puppeteer a range of commands at the all-woman crew, such as, “Lick her clit,” “Bite her tits,” "Suck my ear," and “Fill my filthy fucking holes!” which meant, a fist in the mouth, and a cum-inducing fist up her wide-and-welcoming asshole until her eyes rolled back into her skull like the sex-possessed sinner she had always been.

Dreary really and truly loved anal. It all began when she was nineteen. In short, her sister liked the videographer guy from church who didn't like her in return. Instead, he had his lustful eyes set on Dreary, and ultimately sold her the classic tale of anal sex being a religious lube hole …He meant, loophole, and quickly corrected his eager self.

And from there, she allowed him, her crushes, and nearly every ex-boyfriend who once pressured her for sex, to have a walk through her valley that lay in the shadow of depth between her small, bubbled cheeks. But of course, not the pussy. Never. Sister Dreary's virgin cunt maintains and operates like a museum. "Look, but don't touch." At least not until Jesus does his Moses rendition by parting her red sea and ushering her into womanhood, first.

That said, before this became Father Beckman's problem, it was once a crisis for her actual father who had walked in on Dreary one afternoon when he decided to go home for lunch, only to learn that she had played hooky, and apparently hooker.

He observed about eight men, varying from college guys to his age, in his living room as if it were a waiting lobby, while the ceiling rattled and thumped above their heads, from his daughter being railed out and screaming sexual obscenities that would break his heart, and his wallet, when he made the heftiest private donations to various convents and churches, that would look past her violated anus, and rationalize that she at least remained faithful to Jesus by keeping her vagina intact.

Fast forward, and at twenty-six years of age, and well versed in nasty fucks that put her body right, Dreary's turbulent path eventually led her to Beckman's church. And unfortunately, the parties responsible for her transfer conveniently omitted any/all history and paperwork speaking to Dreary's colorful past—and present.

As Father Beckman dropped his head in failure and turned his loafers to quietly exit, the crucified Christ ornament would superstitiously fall off the wall, smack the floor, and cause the women to raise their heads from their contorted collage of small-to-large tits, hairy-to-shaved pussies, and a lovely range of apple bottom, Georgia peach, and pear-shaped asses. In truth, it sort of mirrored a renaissance painting where natural-bodied women enjoyed group pleasure.

Sister Dreary startled at the sight of Father Beckman, as his hungry eyes scanned the carnal buffet spread out before him. He took another look, and thoughtful moment, at the crucified Christ ornament on the floor. Beckman was perplexed. He raised his head and redirected at Dreary and Friends, who now had that, "Fuck me, Daddy,". I mean, "Fuck me, Father," look in their eyes.

And after a deep diver's breath, Father Beckman would allow the harem to drown him in their abyss of wet kisses, fondling, and the inevitable unbuckling of his fancy belt with the big, gold, Holy Cross buckle, proudly fixed in the center.