The Nun

Disclaimer: this is a work of fantasy in an alternate future but it does include blasphemy. It is intended to be light-hearted. Please read advisedly.

September 4th 2156.

Thirty years after the second coming of Christ.

The great redeemer returned to reclaim his flock at the beginning of the twenty-second century.

An ecological basket-case, many had already written off their chances of survival, if not salvation.

The previously chilly snowscapes of Canada and Siberia were now the world's most habitable destinations. Not that border designations of things like countries meant anything anymore, all previous acknowledged national boundaries being annihilated in the resource wars of the 2050s. War was hell, and it was everywhere for decades.

But also Earth was to all intents and purposes a literal hell, because the last time temperatures were this high was 55 million years ago.

After the resource wars: complete societal collapse. With most of the world now unable to produce food, let alone goods and products, money had no value and no function.

The best prepared of all were the super-rich, who had already wargamed for the end of civilisation. Most holed up in doomsday bunkers, paying a small army of military guards in supplies to keep them safe. Most were laid siege to and executed by hordes of desperate everymen and women.

The term normally used to describe this scenario, 'post-apocalyptic', is one that would have comfortably sufficed to apply to the mid-to-late twenty-first century.

But that was before Christ came back.

The hysterical prognostications of the Book of Revelations proved wide of the mark, though as usual there was symbolism and allegory aplenty for those that cared to scry for the essence of divination in the slightest thing.

This time, the spectacle of Christ on the earth was a global phenomenon, and certainly no unfalsifiable post-facto scribbling by a coterie of true believers. Miracles were performed, documented, authenticated. There could be no doubt. Hope blossomed worldwide that the suffering and conflagration that encompassed the planet would be extinguished and a final age of transcendence and tranquillity would come.

But this time Jesus failed. This time he succumbed. Tempted.

Christ's dereliction was not to assuage hunger, or thirst, as in the desert. Nor was it to escape the barbs of suffering and torment, as in the Via Dolorosa, or Golgotha.

It was a temptation of the flesh.

No-one knew what had happened, and yet at the same time, everyone knew. A woman tempted Christ. Tore him from the path. No-one had seen her, and at the same time, everyone instinctively knew what had happened. There were rumours that she was some kind of infernal agent, a succubi, trained in the erotic arts in the depths of hell, more carnally experienced and experimental than any mortal human could begin to dream of; there were rumours of an infinitely practised and lasciviously unrelenting sex-worker of legendary dimensions; there were rumours of an offhand romance with an uninterested aid-worker; a pathetic, desperate fling with a mother-figure and insanely proportioned MILF; a large eyed milk-skinned teenage waif; it was the Whore of Babylon: it was the Girl Next Door.

No-one knew.

But they knew that Christ had turned from the Path.

God's fury rained down in an amusing assortment of natural disasters that would more usually have been considered self-cancelling. Fire and ice. Drought and flood. The fires themselves lasted for forty weeks. Then clouds of ash for years. Ironically, God's curse of raging, apocalyptic fury threw blankets of smog into the atmosphere that shrouded the earth from the more devastating effects of climate change. Continents shifted. New mountain ranges formed as He ground His teeth.

After the ash had settled, a new and curious humanity surveyed its damnation on a new and curious world. It wasn't long before the more barbed and lingering aspect of God's curse manifested itself.

The absolute and total pornification of the human species.

Overnight, the survivors of the apocalypse reconfigured what was left of civilisation into a carnival of Babylonian excess that knew no limits. Sex was the only currency worth anything. The remaining urban centres, public spaces, media technologies and communication nodes were overhauled into vehicles for the promulgation of the most lurid, vulgar, and excessively sexualised content. Only the most salacious XXX material functioned as the lingua franca of the new world.

But such changes weren't merely reducible to alterations of taste and a growing realignment of the priorities of society along hypersexualised lines. In a couple of decade's time, in the early 2130s, it had become apparent that the human genome itself had changed. The new generation of humans that emerged after Christ's Fall were utterly pornified. The men were inconceivably horse-hung, endowed with monstrously inflated and titanium-hard fucksticks that were a cum-pumping marvel of readjusted anatomy; the women were proportioned like the most stunning and exaggerated bimbos that ever strutted across the face of the planet with spherical, jutting globe-like tits, muscularly ripped, sculptured torsos, long, slender, sculptured legs and protruding, bubble-butt asses that popped in bouncing orbs out of their rears.

And they wanted to FUCK.

They were a generation both blessed and cursed, stricken by God with a physical and mental reminder of Christ's original sin. As he had sinned, so they would bear the marks. Christ's sin had begotten this new race of pornified Adams and Eves.

Rapidly, human society raced to catch up with its young, not to be outperformed. Surgery and enhancement technology moved apace, with a hundred years of progress accomplished in little over a decade. Those that had outlasted the apocalypse, had lived through God's wrath, augmented and modified their bodies to the limits of their sexual capacity in short order, rivalling their hypersexual progeny for the pornification of their bodies and souls.

Slowly civilisation readjusted. New alliances were built, new neo-feudal fiefdoms established. Now an average large settlement was no more than five-thousand souls, travel between these heavily fortified and fiercely defended outposts only undertaken by the intrepid or foolhardy. There was no overarching authority or governmental agency that could bind these centres together. Though one tried.

The Church.

It was not the Church as anyone from the previous two-millennia would have recognised it. It was not the same church as it had been. It was in some ways a carnival mirror of the earlier institution, though it professed the same observances.

It was a new church for a new time.

This time, there were no declarations of purity. No nostrums about good deeds, grace, or transcendence. They knew of the misalignment of priorities heretofore. They worshipped not God the Father, not God the Son, nor God the Ghost. They worshipped God the Man.

It was an earthly and earthbound religious creed, sanctified in the crucifying fire of Christ's sexual dissolution. There was one way to reclaim to the soul of humankind, and it was to fight fire with fire. Dick against tits, asshole against clit, pussy against lips, the church would reinstate control over the sacred part of the human animal.

Through selection, through training, through discipline, through sacrifice, the church created its ultimate weapon. An elite corps, totally faithful to the church's ideals, and utterly devoted to one thing and one thing alone to effect its accomplishment:

Insatiable fucking, to superhuman excess.

They are the nuns.

XXX

Syncletia awoke in her cell. It was still dark. The dream clung to her vividly. Fire and thorns, tangled together. The shape of a cross silhouetted on the wall of a pine-built lodge, above a bed. As she looked at the cross, a shadow from behind her loomed over her shoulders, the shape of horns cast either side of the wooden crucifix. A hulking shape behind her, solid, hard, and heavy. She could hear heavy breath, and feel the compression of the weight of the being on the floorboards behind her. The clumping sound of a hoof.

That was always when she woke. Try as she might, it was difficult to examine her feelings towards the dream. It was always the same. She didn't feel fear specifically. It was more excitement, nervousness. The vision of the crucifix and the horned visitor both stirred anxiety and arousal in equal measure. There was nothing she could make of it. Her dreams were a distraction in any case.

She was awake, and therefore was instantly, almost catatonically horny. She needed to cum in way that seared into her soul. Her snatch burned with scalding lascivious heat, the velvety pink flesh of her dripping pussy drenchingly soaked with slick ejaculate. Part gasping, part snarling, she seized the thick black rubber implement on her bedside table and shoved it into her slippery cooze. The item, in fact a thick, shiny dildo in the shape of a crucifix, had a footlong section in the shape of a brawny, vascular penis that she hilted into the depths of her sopping snatch, slid up her pussy and shook her into a convulsive, squirting orgasm within the first five or so strokes of the hefty pole up her slit.

The explosion of gelatinous juices that spewed in a series of splattering, bursting sprays drenched the sheets of her bed beneath her and collected in the deep grooves of the ridged plateau of stomach muscles, running down the etches between the hard and sculptured ridges of abdominals into the central valley. She withdrew the crucifix dildo with a squelch that echoed loudly in the confines of her small room.

Her cell at the convent was bare and austere, befitting her calling. A bed, bedside table, washstand and a large wardrobe with a full-length mirror. It was said that decorations clouded the mind, but austerity focused it. Heaving her last convulsing sign in the afterglow of the masturbation, she rose, washed her face, and surveyed herself in the mirror.

Syncletia was born post Christ's fall, and it showed. She was the recipient of God's curse -- or blessing, depending on how you looked at it -- in the most extreme and exaggerated way. She was tall and unbelievably statuesque, her skin lustrously deep and brown, gloriously tanned, with lean arms and a graceful neck that flowed into a clavicle across which the word WHORE read in a tattoo of stylised gothic script. The pair of tits that stuck out of her chest were literally the size and shape of bowling balls, the topmost curves of the bulging globes not far from her chin, projecting out of her shredded torso, the monstrous dimensions of the protruding pair of orbs inflating her silhouette out at the top. Studded into the sides of the deep ridges of muscle that rippled down her waist were a series of silver piercings, which interlinked with the swirl of tattoos that spiralled up from her groin that flowered all over her candied caramel skin, the black geometry curving over her hips in stylised shapes and glyphs. Her pussy was shaved, pierced through the clit, with a tattoo of a cross on her pubic mound above it. Each of her glutes stuck out like a cannonball from her rear, her luscious, round hips blossoming behind her into two bronzed spheres of flesh. Her incredibly long and shapely legs had smooth flares of quad muscles defined against the flanks of her thighs. A sleeve of tattoos covered one arm. She had long blonde hair except for where an undercut was closely shaved down one side of her head. Her face was sublime: smoky, sultry, hypnotic watery blue eyes, an angular jawline and a pair of thick, plump, permanently pouting lips.

Even amongst the other nuns of the convent, Syncretia stood out. Abandoned as a baby on the doorstep of the convent eighteen years ago, she had excelled in everything, her body developing as fast as he other capacities, until she had long ago outstripped her teachers. Her sisters held her a little in awe, thinking her a saint in the making. There were hints from her superiors that special missions awaited her.

Syncletia dressed herself. First, the wimple. There were many kinds of these. Some skintight and more like hoods, some latex. The one she wore today was classic. In shiny black PVC the material framed her face and wrapped tightly around her neck, a sort of short bib with a stylised cross on it covering her tattooed clavicle, her massive tits ballooning out below it. The customary white band rounded her forehead, with the same black PVC issuing out of the top and falling down her back. Using shiny black tape, Syncletia pasted a small pair of X's over her nipples, donned a pair of black, shiny, skintight elbow-length fingerless gloves, and shimmied into the short, single frill of a PVC skirt that sat on top of her ass and completely showed her pussy, which was itself covered by the tiniest scrap of a thong, the straps cutting into the lush flesh over her hips.

Shoving a butt-plug with a stylised cross into her asshole, rosary beads dangling out of it and jangling between her legs as she walked, Syncletia selected a pair of black shiny thigh-length stripper boots slit down the side and showing flesh through the places where they were tied, with platform soles and eight-inch heels.

It was better than mortal man deserved.

Syncletia led an austere life, eating only bread, drinking water, and supplementing her diet with a balanced intake of other colourless and odourless nutrients. As a consequence, her senses were continually aflame and bloodhound sharp.

She could smell the precum oozing from the tip of the monstercock waiting for her in the confession booth from here.

XXX

Suitably attired, Syncletia left her cell, closing the door behind her and making her way down the dormitory corridor. It was still quite early and there weren't any of her sisters about yet, with the strip lighting of the corridor giving way to the pale daylight seeping through the large window at the end of the corridor. Syncletia had heard tell of churches, monasteries, and convents in the pre-Christfall that were constructed of hard carved oak, or blocks of heavy medieval stone. Imposing structures yet with little about them that could be called comfortable. This one did not have the gravitas of those places of old, where the church -- the old church -- wielded significant power, and commanded huge resources, but the aseptic plaster walls and concrete floors still gave it an ascetic dimension. The overall effect was, as with Sycletia's austere diet, one which stimulated her senses, and allowed her imagination to overpower the uninspiring co-ordinates of her surroundings. Devotion, for The Nuns, was not merely physical. Their minds too were continually pushing at barriers and transcending their earthly confines.

Syncletia hoped to reach Confession ahead of any of her Sisters, but as she hurried to The Booth and descended the stairs and crossed the lower hallway, she could see a glimpse of a form of worship that appeared to have taken all night and which was now apparently reaching its conclusion. There were rooms situated off this corridor that were preserved for communal worship, and one was currently occupied.

Though a half-open doorway, Syncletia saw one of her sisters, kneeling at the foot of a rumpled, satin-sheeted bed, a large cross mounted on the wall behind the bedstead caught in a backwash of dim lamplight. The doorway was open enough for Syncletia to witness the final moments of a pussy-lubricating diorama that made her instinctively dip her finger between her lips as she saw it. The sister in question, a Nun two or three years her senior called Lymara, was administering the final touches to a carnal sacrament, accompanied by a pair of Priests.

Lymara was clad in the vestiges of what was originally a more complete devotional attire which was not so very different to what Syncletia herself was wearing. Mostly it fitted the Nun aesthetic of shiny vinyl and skintight latex, preferably black.

She was wearing a pair of black, shiny latex stockings that sheathed her long legs completely as she kneeled at the foot of the bed, her chest upthrurst and back arched. The material was absolutely skintight and encased the entirety of both of her legs, each slender, long, shapely limb sporting shiny black vinyl stripper sandals with platform soles and what looked to be at least six-inch stiletto heels, which were buckled at her heel. A black, crotchless, shiny pair of bikini style bottoms, with little bows tied over her succulent, curvy hips, revealed her glistening pussy lips through the gaping slit. A thick, slowly emerging cord of gluey white spunk was emerging from Lymara's cunt, the gooey rope of viscous fluid roping between her slender legs and connecting her glistening slit to the prayer mat beneath her. Above this, a black PVC corset was clasped around her slender midriff, but the garment was cut away at the bust, so that Lymara's absolutely massive knockers jutted out of her torso, a pair of spherical, head-sized orbs that protruded out underneath her chin. She was wearing a shiny black choker around her neck with a silver cross dangling from it, and also had on matching vinyl latex gloves on which went all the way up her arms; these were fingerless. Rounding off Lymara's slutty fetish Nun outfit was her version of a wimple: a glossy black hood with a hole at the top through which her hair appeared in a flowing plume of thick tresses, the garment encasing her neck the sides of her face.

Syncletia paused as she passed the doorway and lingered as Lymara caught her eye. An unbelievable slut with an extraordinary fuckdoll body, Lymara was framed on each side by a pair of Priests that Syncletia knew quite well: Brother Adam and Brother Isaac. Nuns and Priests both occupied different wings in the same institution, but regularly engaged in acts of devotion together, so pretty much all of them knew each other intimately.

So far as Syncletia was concerned, she was already very well-acquainted with the massive turgid fucksticks that her co-religionists were sporting, having been comprehensively spitroasted by the Brothers on a variety of occasions. Adam and Isaac liked to worship together, a fact which delighted many of the Nuns. Like all the post-Christfall generation, Adam and Isaac were curse-blessed with incredibly powerful physiques and near-superhuman masculine potency that far exceeded the capacities of the pre-fall humans, and with their training, devotion and spiritual exercise, were approaching the apex of what was believed to be possible so far as male sexual capabilities went. Each of the Priests was a solid-gold stud, which the way in which both their hulkingly sized, incredibly brawny, vascularly bloated and muscularly inflated pair of meat-missiles attested.

Presently, both Priests were putting the final touches to their pumping out a sticky dual horseload of thick, gooey spunk all over Lymara's face, shiny hood, and tanned, gleaming, protruding tits, which added to the mess that that had already splattered into her cunt. Adam and Isaac, their two giant, meaty, and glistening prongs glinting in the lights as each of them, craning up on their tiptoes, firmly wrung their monstercocks with their clinching hands, sliding their fingers down their rigid fourteen-inch lengths to squeeze the final ropes of spunk all over Lymara. Syncletia looked at the way that the two boiling loads had mixed together to make a splattering, plastered mess on the smiling Nun, who opened her mouth further and stuck her tongue out, letting a molten welter of glistening cum cascade over her jaw that slithered down between her massive tits and then slowed to a dribble that stuck to her chin and dangled there.