#object penetration

What you have done is a sin, the bishop shouted in your dreams. A multifaceted sin! 

You had fornicated. Neither you nor Damien were married. Least of all to each other, because he was Father Karras. You hadn’t initiated the act, but you’d still taken advantage of a priest’s body. That’s what you kept telling yourself. Because the idea of being violated by a demon was too horrific to entertain.

But “Captain Howdy” was violating Damien Karras’s body and soul.

A man of the cloth, you felt, was an authority figure, whether you were baptized or not. You weren’t sure if Chris was. All you knew was she wasn’t a churchgoer. You’d tried to stay out of celebrities’ and coworkers’ private lives. Chris MacNeil was both, yet something had spurred you to help her sick child. Resulting in a friendship. Not that you would ever be close enough to tell her about your “love” life.

Coitus per vaginam. No prophylactics. Maybe that counts for something. 

“A priest pressuring a layperson into an affair is nothing new,” mused Pazuzu, as he’d introduced himself, while introducing his dick to your mouth. “Karras would have eventually fallen to temptation, attempting to seduce you himself.”

You doubted like hell “Pazuzu” was the demon’s real name, or that he had anything to do with Mesopotamia. Anything ancient, for that matter. His mannerisms were too modern. Besides, knowing an entity’s true name was supposed to grant you power over them, right? You were powerless to resist his explorations of your orifices. 

But from his tone, you wondered (while opening wide), whether he was revealing painful truths or just being a sadistic liar.

Supposedly holy men coerced parishioners, true. But Father Karras wasn’t directly responsible for the dick in your mouth. Even if it was his. How culpable were you? That question kept snaking between fully and not at all. Yet it really wasn’t that dichotomous. Like in the sad tale of Faust, a fiend promised you bliss before ripping it out from under your feet. 

It’d been a while since you went to see that play. It was with some crew members, just after your big break. Had there been an incubus character? Sexual debauchery, sure. Oh, and they’d been Lust. Or Lechery or Luxuria or whatever. Maybe you could borrow the MacNeils’ ouija board and ask Kit Marlow if he’d like to dramatize your demonic dealings. 

All these things you were thinking of when you performed fellatio for the first time in the guest room. 

The demon unceremoniously undid Father Karras’s pants, instructed you to kneel, and sneered “Familiar with getting your throat stuffed?” when you complied. It might have been a rhetorical question. He then offered to shove one of those decorative candles from the window sill up your snatch. 

“No,” was your quiet answer. His shallow face grimaced as shadows under his eyes purpled, along with his lips. 

Damien hated seeing you degraded. Particularly through such lewd acts. Almost as much as he hated that Pazuzu had carte blanche access to his thoughts. So it knew how best to punish its vessel. For resisting its violations of you. For directly pleading with it. For denying that he was beginning to love you. 

Before you could dutifully swallow your master’s semen, you found the side of your face pinned against the bed. If he’d used any more of his supernatural strength, your neck would’ve twisted. You angled yourself so your face was fully pressed against the plush mattress. Hiding from his sick yellow eyes.

“Sore knees are the least of your worries,” he rasped. The floor was wooden and the carpet was thin, unlike the church kneelers you longed for. You heard him stomp away only to return shortly. Calmer. 

“Gaze upon me.”

Once more you obeyed. Horror struck when you first saw the size of his erection. No longer average length; it was a plum-headed, veined monstrosity. And you knew it would have easily (though not for you) penetrated a cervix if it wanted. 

Father Karras internally screamed at his possessor not to rape you with it. Then he noticed the candle and wine glass. The priest didn’t know what the goblet was for. All he knew was that you hadn’t rejected the demon’s offer politely enough.   

You knew what to do. Gulping, but otherwise silent, you faced him and parted your legs. Wincing as the dry candle base split your slit. At least he hadn’t brought matches. Though, being infernal, maybe he could light it at leisure. Then he “gently” kicked most of the candle into you. “Gently,” because no amount of lubrication could make your pussy less shallow. No cervical penetration, but you felt it hit the entrance of your womb. The circumference would have been nice, at least, if you’d been aroused enough to start with.

The wick, you noticed to your dismay, was just about the only thing sticking out. Even if you managed to get wetter or even orgasm, which you highly doubted, pulling the candle out was going to be a very uncomfortable experience. There was just too much girth. You were terrified. 

Then it hit you that the candle wasn’t from this bedroom. But you knew where it came from. 

They weren’t votive candles proper, just kept around for holiday dinners, in case of devout guests. At your place. Not here, Chris’s rental. They hadn’t been blessed, you soothed yourself, so they were about as sacred as holy water before blessing. Meaning, not at all. The chalice— because really that was what it was, much more ornate than your other tableware—was placed atop your bedside table. 

Again, not a holy object, but this was beginning to feel a lot like a Black Sabbath.  

The grotesque cock, matching Father Karras’s transformed countenance, tapped the rim. Dripping precum. Revolted, you saw his nails had lengthened, sharpened into near-claws. And he was furiously jacking off with them. “Miraculously” managing to not scratch his member. You just felt relieved that this time he didn’t want you to touch that thing. It wouldn’t be like when you’d been compelled to masturbate him in the laundry room. That thing. Your beloved priest was no longer human. It truly dawned on you that what you were dealing with was unearthly.  

Careful not to spill a single drop, the self-styled deity was. The sheer volume of cum amazed you. Your lips parted next, eager to please him again. A cruel smile informed you of your misunderstanding.

“On your hands and knees.”

You obeyed, backside facing the priest. Thankfully, you recounted afterwards, your master chose to do nothing to it that night. But that session was the time you realized you’d begun referring to him as your master. Because what else were you doing but serving him?

The chalice was set in front of you, on the floor. So you drank from it. Lapping, like the obedient girl you were. Your sycophancy was expressed not in words, but actions. You wondered if Father Karras felt like a bitch, too.

The candle, which you made sure to vocally thank him for keeping unlit, pumped in and out of your compact orifice. Never leaving it, though you could almost feel yellow eyes burning into you. Picturing the normally tight pussy gaped.    

Laid out on the floor afterwards, stomach and cunt and heart full, licking the “dregs” of spunk from the bottom of the glass, you were awaiting his next command when you saw a bone pallid face in the dark, grinning nastily down at you. You followed its leer. To see the candlewick was soaked.

A hand, no, a pale claw, not unlike the priest’s converted hand, laid flat its palm, bearing another one of your chalices. 

Shivering, you knew the demon was becoming more powerful. Refractory periods becoming shorter. Summoning lesser spirits to do its bidding. (You didn’t know at the time that was his true face.) Plus all the devilry Chris had told you about.