Chapter IX

Trembling, Mewsy awaited Futkas Agopolos in Marigold’s best bedchamber. One hand thumbed her rosary… The other, her prayer beads. 😉

She had known her Faith would be tested by temptation. But so sorely, and so soon? She was sure she smelled his libidinous musk on the wind.

How she longed to be the bride of Christ, and yet – the room was ankle deep with her plasma seepage from the mere thought of Futkas.

“Our Father,” she murmured piously, “Hallowèd be thy… FUTKAS!” Like a panther he had come: silently, and with strength. Mewsy whimpered.

 

He spoke, and his voice was so rich, so low, it seemed it made her hymen whole again, only to rend it anew. “Mewsy.” She fell in a swoon.

Blackness! A call. A vision! “Mewsy!” it chastely cried, “Surely I the LORD will succour thee in all thy heart’s desires, only shun Me not!”

She came to in Futkas’ arms. “Forgive me,” she whispered in preemptive penitence. For she knew she had already succumbed to the Tingle King.

 

To call Futkas Agopolos handsome would be to call the magnificent Stegosaur a lizard; the pulchritude of his manlihood knew no human name.

The essence of his gorgeous pungent maleness preceded him, and, caught in his smoky brown gaze, the laces of the soul loosened, came undone.

Across a crowded room he made knees weaken, mouths water. To be pressed against his fluffy chest was to know a fearful helplessness.

Anyways, he was a bit of a hottie for sure. Mewsy lay in his embrace, her femininity whelmed by this great force. “Oh, Futty,” she breathed.

 

“Mewsy,” (the way he said it was heaven) “Have you waited for me?” They had a little game, you see, where he’d find her where he left her.

“Futty, I’m nothing without you. I’ve wasted away!” His hand brushed her cheek and she very nearly lost her mind from the thrill of it.

He nudged his dear aspect between her squishy titties. Then further south he sailed, past the equator, until he faced the Heart of Darkness.

His sumptuous irises beheld her, to devastating effect. “You’ve been good,” he murmured (she hadn’t), and his jaw parted her plumpy gams.

Dogs in a nearby farmyard suddenly went mad, so shrill was the utterance effected by the meeting of muffin and mandible. Agopolos chuckled.

 

Mewsy’s mind was scrambled by the torridity. Yet, even quivering with unbearable sex rigours, still she heard that voice calling out to her.

“Open thy heart to Me, Mewsy,” it sang out, “I hold the lock and thou holdest the key! I shall give thee Love if thou, thou turn’st the key!”

Through the semen-splattered velvety walls of Marigold and Sundry, Mewsy’s cry rang clear. “No more!” she howled. “My chastity begins anew!”

 

Futkas reappeared beyond her untamed bush. “Problem, darling?” As with many cruelly beautiful young heirs, interruptions made him irritable.

Torn between his love and His Love, Mewsy struggled to stand, but she slipped in the sea of passion juice, fell, and was caught in his arms.

She was soaked through. Who could distinguish what was her pelvic flood, what Agopolos’ salivary contributions, and what her holy tears?

She couldn’t meet his molten hot eye. “Oh, Futty,” she began, “I’ve been sanctified, and th-this corruptible m-must put on inco-corruption!”

 

“You shut your blowhole and open that snatch,” he barked. (Dear me. Fut could be sweet as a meadow vole, but in his choler he was a horror.)

“Futkas!” Even with her frightened head turned away, Mewsy could see, reflected in the lake of their secretions, the iron glint of his rage.

 

Futkas Agopolos had followed Mewsy into Marigold that first wet night, leasing her bod from Fung before she had even given her name.

He had bathed her with his testosterous tongue, transforming her: Mewsy Stone, flighty housewife, reëmerged Anna Axenputel, femme du monde.

It was his idea that she use an alias. He knew everything about her, and all she knew of him was that he sure knew his way around a vagina.

“That’s all behind us,” Mewsy sniffed to herself. And to him, “I’m sorry, my Fut, but I’m off the menu. Go, and sin no more.”

 

“Look, you,” he rumbled (It would’ve been mmm if it wasn’t scary. Or was it still a bit mmm? Hmmm) “I know what you are. So don’t you dare.”

“Now,” (the place he grabbed her made her temporarily wish she wasn’t a naturalist, “down there”) “Earn it, Anna Axenputel.”

Mewsy had always loved his dominant streak. But now… “There’s nothing sexy about unwanted sexual aggression in real life!” she shrieked.

She was dehydrated, overfucked, and spiritually tuckered. And Fut… Suddenly she was so tired. Down, down she sank in the pool of splootie.

 

She felt herself tightly enveloped in deep, hot hole. A hussish screeching throbbed around her: “Mewsy! Now you belong to us!”

“No! Never!” She writhed against the infernal incantation, “I’ve become a Member of His Glorious Body! I shake off your demonic shackles!”

“Slapper! Slag! Steeplechasing Nag!” they penetrated her all over, “Floozy! Ho! Woman on the Go! You’ve made your bed, now die in it!”

Their filthy talons pressed her tender boob-flesh. Their hairy, hoary tails whipped against her bouncy bum-bum. Mewsy’s agony was complete.

“I have sinned mightily,” she wailed, “Degrading myself with johnson and weenie! Yea, the burden of my sin IS upon me – but forsake me not!”

 

A hand reached down through the gloom. It cupped her in all the right places, lifting her back to light. She opened her eyes. It was Tybalt!

 

NEXT CHAPTER!

 

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