Knkstriped

Sexorcism

Exorcism-themed BDSM threesome; a fantasy of kinky correction

James pushes me over the arm of the sofa, yanking down my trousers and knickers, exposing my bare arse and come-slicked cunt to our guest. “Look at that” he says. “She’s fucking insatiable, can’t get enough. I had to give her one before you arrived, and she’s already gagging for more.”

I moan in indignation, and he shoves my head down into the cushions. “Hush. We’re talking about you, not to you” He turns his attention back to Becka, who is perched, elegant as always, on the armchair opposite, sipping Lapsang Souchong from a bone china cup. She shakes her head in feigned sorrow and disbelief.

“What a greedy little whore. No wonder you called me round. I can see you’re too kind-hearted to do what needs to be done here.” Becka stands, sets the teacup down on the coffee table. Kneels down so her face is close to mine. The smoky aroma of her tea wreathes between us.

“I can help you” she croons, a wicked grin on her pale pink lips. I can’t tell whether she’s talking to me or to him. I’m not sure it matters. “You’ve got a demon in you. I can drive it out”. She’s talking to me then, and now I know the shape of this evening’s entertainment. We’re going to play ‘sexorcism’. Nice. My back arches of its own accord, pushing my arse higher into the air. At my rear, James is coaxing a lubed buttplug inside me, spreading my cheeks and wriggling it deeper by delicious, humiliating increments. I whimper as it slides home.

“Yes, a very serious case” tuts Becka. She turns to James. “Let’s get set up.”

The sturdy kitchen table, covered with a purple cloth, serves as an altar. It had taken both of them to wrestle my clothes from me; I wriggled and clawed and spat, but outnumbered, I had no real chance of escape. Once she’s tied the final knot, Becka leans over me, her long brown hair tickling my face.

“You’re going to pay for that” she says softly. I snarl and struggle against the ropes, playing my role with dramatic flair, enjoying my helplessness. James is lighting candles on the sideboard; the black wax play set we bought at a fetish market last month. Arrayed neatly nearby lurk various instruments of pain and pleasure. “Ready.” he tells her, running greedy eyes over my exposed body, and unzips his trousers.

“Start praying.” he grins at me.

They’re going to hurt me, and humiliate me, fuck the lust-demon from me, make me scream and beg and cry, and if I’m really lucky – orgasm a few times. I can’t stop grinning; this is going to be so much fun.


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