Z OLD – Chapter XIII

Sadistic desert winds thrashed dunes into fiery twisters, but a fuck-starved Mewsy fought on. Sand everywhere. Sand inside her very hystera.

Muriel, a sturdy D-word if ever there was one, urged her forward. “Our LORD’s foot never faltered for forty days and forty nights, Sister.”

Just forty days and thirty-nine nights ago Mewsy’d been getting candled and gorging herself on succulent bushfruit. How had she gotten here?

“Now’s no time for reflection!” she admonished herself. But it was no good; the memory of that Sisterly seduction soothed her inflammations.


Mewsy had, apparently, been on the edge of a spiritual precipice when Muriel surprised her in autocommunion. Muriel had helped her see this.

“You’re in grave danger, Sister,” she’d said, teasing Mewsy’s lippy crease with the tassel end of a cincture, “Satan’s tempters stalk you.”

Mewsy’s sin-braised bod had undulated as she cried, “Oh, Sister! My Sister! Suck the wickedness out! Let your tongue shew forth holiness!”

“Dearest Sister,” Muriel had breathed across her sensy bosomberries, “You’re sodden with it. Can the stain of your vice ever be rubbed out?”

“I beg you!” Mewsy was truly wracked with wrongdoer’s woe, “Purge me of the unclean smudges made upon my soul by diddlers without number!”


“Only He can unsully you. But this very morn He bespake me, saying, ‘Daughter, I send you one who is lost, so that you may guide her hand.'”

So saying, the perfidious Sister took Mewsy’s hand, which had been creeping toward her own overpacked lettuce sandwich. “No more,” she said.

“Does your heart repent?” she quizzed the horny hotso. Mewsy whinnied, “Desperately!” “Then so must your body, Sister. It must be cleansed.”

“To be purified, Jesus Our Eternal Saviour, Master, And Lord of Love (JOE SMALL) gave Himself over to deep need and tempting in the desert.”

Muriel watched as Mewsy vibed with a deep need of her very own, torching for spiritual release.

“So must you do.” She beheld Mewsy’s puffy crotch eye. “For He came to me in a vision, saying, ‘Bind her, so weakness does not whelm her.'”


So saying, Muriel produced from the folds of her surplice a wrought-iron panty in the image of Mewsy’s storied pelv.

“Une ceinture de chasteté!” gasped Sister Stone, who was classier than people gave her credit for. “I’ve only ever worn one recreationally!”

“He has called you to dicklessness, Sister,” said Muriel piously. She fastened buckles round first one submissive haunch, then the other.

(Now, in parched delirium, Mewsy thought how right it had felt to stand before her Sister wearing only The Sanctifier® and a novice wimple.)

Gawd had spoken to Muriel, since she alone was pure in her nethers. Mewsy was to trace the steps of Christ, and to be tempted in the desert.


The journey had been hard. Muriel, chosen by the LORD to act Satan’s role in this homage to the Great Temptation, taunted Mewsy mercilessly.

First she’d let her coarse, lesbish fingers play across Mewsy’s exposed tit-handles (the LORD had specified she go naked from the waist up).

“JOE SMALL sees down your ravine,” she’d say, “He knows you lust for a St. Peter the size of a thermos. He sees the drip in your knickers!”

“But, you know,” she’d then drizzle intimately, “It doesn’t have to be this way. Imagine how FULL a generous kielbasa would feel right now.”


Mewsy didn’t need reminding. She’d hardly passed a day since pupation without some kind of preventative maintenance. Withdrawal creamed her.

Her fallopes burned with feminine yenning. Her fuzzy peach caramelised inside the sun-warmed slutlocker. Mewsy was aflame, caro et anima.

With this refiner’s fire, both Sisters knew, the LORD would singe off iniquity’s smut, restoring to whiteliness the temple of her womanhood.


So, though she was tormented by a ceaseless mirage of dancing dinks, Mewsy had stayed strong lo these nine hundred forty-eight hours.


“The fortieth eve’s upon us, Sister Stone,” Mumcu the Beelzebess now announced, “This night you’ll meet the final test of Virtue’s mettle.”

The sandstorm settled, showing, at the feet of the pilgrim nuns, a ravening chasm’s brink. “The Gates of Hell,” was Mumcu’s chilling dictum.

“Look down, blessèd Sister, and see your own oft-shtupped past reflected in this inky well. Hear the sensuous damned calling out to you?”

“I think I do,” wisped our brokedown pro-ho, “Or is it the wind? Oh, but the dry crackling of my cumless orifi is as thunder on mine ear!”

“See their bare flesh?” Muriel said, “It sweats in the heat! They gyrate and beg to be freed! How this pit o’erflows with wild human need!”

(“For hell,” she held forth, “Is eternity lived with balls of deepest blue. It is to hanker without end for ne’er-to-be-tasted groinjoy.”)

“I see them!” bawled Mewsy, “I see their muscles flex and strain!” “They would press their hot selves on you. They know you want it!”

“Ah, to feel the weight of a dude…” Mewsy raised her snout to the arid breeze, “Could it be? Can I smell th’eternal tang of men in heat?”

“Oh!” Mewsy teetered on the edge, peering into the abyss. “If I could bend down, that some poor soul might rub one out between my bazungas!”


“Dearest!” Mumcu whispered urgently, “Were you to leap – in the Spirit of Charity – His angels would bear you up, lest you dash your etc.”

“I, descend into Hell?” Mewsy quaked. Muriel was quick: “But Sister! Did not our LORD sojourn there three days, for the sins of His people?”

“For Us.” Mewsy bowed her head. “Then surely I’ve been brought hither (having such a specific skill set) to minister to these lost souls?”

Muriel nodded gravely, but in her heart she cackled. “If you trust in Him,” she said, “You’ll cast yourself from this height without fear.”

At that moment Mewsy would not have known her own minge in the mirror, so drunk was she on the toxic swill of Faith and Abstinence.

“In Gawd we trust, and in his messengers,” she prayed aloud. “Thank you, Holy Lesber, for lighting my way.” And Mewsy stepped over the edge.