Slut Temple

The sky looks like it inhaled a concoction of ground roses and citrus epicarp, tinting the high wisps of cirrus clouds. Pebbles roll off the edge of the mountain wall like cum dribbling off the lusting bow of her lips. They are still further away from her. The possibility of a step drop hangs like vulture around their necks. The cars skid away from the edge, going upward in cautious spirals, threatening to unwind their inner helices. The drivers eventually stop paying attention to how far low these forlorn granules must be falling in their raspy descent. They say it’s the unusual thickness in the air here that brings such recklessness.

A scent of mint and chives permeates the air wisping away any light headedness. Like some invisible hand that leashes you below into some unnatural urge countering all fear. This is when you know she’s close. Real even. The drivers’ attention churn as if you can feel her thirsty hands reaching all the way from the peak, reaching down and slideing past their hips.

One driver in an orange van tilts sideways and pinches down his volume knob. The voice from a podcast trail off the van speakers, For ten years the priests have not found a new lady in waiting… A couple, in a blue sedan, are probing their bowls of caesar salad they packed in from a dim lit cottage restaurant below, the husband scooping up fork fulls towards his wife as she navigates around the bends. Their thighs start caving in and they can feel their nipples sore up a little like it just bit into the cool air. The woman folk these days come in as many numbers, in hopes of becoming chosen as her lady at the temple. However, the search continues.

A third driver, who looks like he is in his mid thirties, is steering a hatchback. The car trustes upward, seeming more reluctant than him in getting to the top, puffs of struggle cooughing out the muffler like an old man who has long found solace in abandoning even simple wants of the skin like a hot flush of aShower. He seems to be not as affected by the heftyness of the atmosphere. A stuffed toy of the spaghetti monster hangs from his rear view mirror over the dashboard sprinkled with hair from his border collie. Amidst the hair, is an old and dusted book, The Varieties of Religious Experience – William James. Dusted, like it was bought out of an impulsive hope at an old bookshop and then never touched. The pompously ornate like a twirling western mustachio. On the back of his car is a sticker that has annoyed many trailing vehicles, but looking mirrorful as if written by a child,

God is dead.

Any person standing away at roughly a 20 miles radius, can see the mountain is shaped like one of her breasts, cars rivering around like the jagged edges of clothes of one of her many ceremonial lingerie, slowly wrapping and unwrapping. The dome of the temple stands like her nipple, tempted by the teeth like clouds hovering past it. The land is sparsely inked in green by Gingko trees. They are not uniformly spread throughout the mountain. Part of the problem is, the shape of groves keeps changing over the seasons. Instead, you see them forming lines like veiny tributaries across her breasts. They are kept this way by fires sparked by oddly purple shaped thunder that strikes during the monsoons. There is a constant argument over which breast of hers this one is. People biker on online forums over the shape of the lines. There is something mysterious about the fires. Some say the mountain is dynamic. One season Perun, the god of the sky, chooses to make it look like her right, by trimming it with his lightning bolts. And another season, the left. His cock has its own whims that no mortal can know.

A photographer has planted a tripod over an adjacent mountain to capture the movements of the vein shaped Gingko Groves in time delay. A secret project, except to a small team in national geographic. Right now, he is adjusting his binoculars by his tripod. Using them, heis sometimes able to see folks undressing by the Gingkos. One right now, is a woman with just a red striped flannel shirt on, crouched on her heels with just shoes and socks, choking on her friend’s cock some distance away from their large tired truck parked on the shoulder of their road. The photographer doesn’t know they are just friends. It’s something about the air around them.

As the vehicles reach closer and closer, they can see the temple. They say the architect who built this observed her in at least 100 ceremonial fuckings. He wanted to capture exactly how her breasts look in such passwords. Red pinkish lucky of lust. There were accusations he could have a finished it in 50 and the 50 others were just for his leisure. The slut didn’t object.

~~~~

We are inside the temple now. All along the walls you can see engravings, paintings and sculptures. One wall shows a woman strung inside a blue bus upside down, two passengers having their way with her, onefilling her mouth with pants bunched up at his ankles and another licking her cunt. Another wall shows a woman by a road, gem stones marking the little sky as stars. Another in a park, a long line of men ending at her. These are all myths passed down from the old scriptures to the new, different versions of truth before she became a deity is today. The slut.

The womens are scattered throughout the hall, their heads upwards, like kettles pouring murmurs and pointing fingers upward. There is a wooden fence separating the portion of the hall through which the wagers entered. Four men stand on the other side of the fence. Their expressions are varied. The thick bandholz beared, most muscle one, looks hungry, chest like hard buttes, a vein running along his hips beat blood, as if he has already decided he will lead the charge to get Her cunt. Another of them is a middle aged man, father like in his composition with thin rimmed glasses. He has a gentle smile on his face.Some wagers have mumbled between each other, alarmed by how large his cock, pointing.

“Do you think she can take it?”

“Please, they say the back of her throat will even choke on a ship, if it sails in labeled, cock.”

The third is tattooed all over, a nose ring, wiry and bald. The fourth is our driver from the hatchback. He has a disinterested look on his face. Like he is waiting for a friend to finish their shopping at the convenience store, merely interested in the mirrors and himself. There are murmurs as to why someone with such a small penis was chosen. Like a nut among pine cones. No less, a disbelieving.

A gentle tremor starts rising from nowhere in particular. The attendees turn towards the largest wooden door, it’s large bolts and handle jittering against their seats. The tremors start rising in intensity. Drum beats of welcome.

The large door, the size of a two trees, cuts open slowly and with it closing the low chatter of the womenmen intohushed silence. The other side of the door is a pool, turquoise as if they are pulled threads hardened from being separated from her tea blue iris. It seems to extend endlessly in the other direction she wishes her holes did. Some of the scriptures say the pool is as long as her sentences and verses, unwrapped downward from within the mountains towards her private halls. No one knows how the gondola she is stepping out of resistances the force of the gravity.

The gondola swways gently as she steps off the hull, her one thigh tipping over the sandstone, and another pushing back the vessel behind gently. The vessel stays close to the shore. It looks alive, like the deeper portions of the water have no meaning without her.

A priestess in overflowing yellow with a steel staff a head taller than her leads the slut through the door. Her face has a serene beauty. By herself, she would be subject many curious gazes. But everyone’s eyes are perusing the body of the slut.

Even in its largeness, the door looks humble like an open palm, reverent for the sight of her curving hips. She’s wearing a crown of rare golden kale leaves that only grow in the temple garden. The worshipers can smell it as strongly. The coral like hyperbolic golden folds fills the empty gaps between them and presses against them. The weight of it causes a synchronous beat of knees of the wages hitting the floor like peas dropping to the bottom of a cooking pot. While most of the heads are facing downwards, one body is empiring and struggle, being carried away by two burly men with hairy chests. He was identified as the source of the voice that echoed over the silence,

“Glory to your cunt, Goddess!”

While she appreciates aborations, there is strict code in the temple. One only addresses her as divine whore, salacious slut, cock craven floozy, or curvy cumdump. And that’s what the other worshipers are flinging at her. Not because they cared to read the rules. That’s what sheis. It is offensive to breach the names of gods and goddesses. Absent figures that have only moralized suffering. She is above them.

Meanwhile the slut is standing at the altar, glowing as bright as a flame, no signs of even the gentlest of flicker. There is a certainty in the hunger in her eyes, like fasting arctic beast that’s been paddling for days between ice sheets and finally smelling land. Her shoulders are pulled back, like she can’t wait for the poorers to see the thin robe slip off her skin, from arms, to breasts to nipple, reluctant along her luscious thighs and pile down on the floor. And then it does.

One swift motion by the priestess with a small beak of her shaft pulls the loose the rope tied around the slut’s hips. There is no hesitance from the slut. No micro-twiches to pull the flimsy robe back up. This is her natural state. Available and undressed to wanton eyes. Only a thick crime collar and a thin thong, thin as lettuce and as edible, cover her.

A herd of gasps coast from one end of the room to another herded by an invisible conductor. The cocks of the kneeling womens rise like tree stumps flushed with life. There are no more signs of any sleep deprivation from the long road up the mountain to the temple. Even the ones with pussy look rosy cheeked and confused about their reactions. They came here to for the examination of being her lady. Not feel this disappoint between their legs.

The priestess addresses the worstes.

“The road to eternal life is built on the unjustly maligned back of lust.

The repression of body’s desires corrode the bridges to divinity.

It is the first prison the non-believing builds for themselves. A curse from the old gods.”

The men beyond the fence, closer to the altar are rubbing their cocks, slick with precum.

“She is the eternal object.

Every fiber of hers quivers for that pulsing influence between your legs. It is the heavenly truth, her morsel. And she. Yours. The heavenly truth is the relinquishing of the blood from that brain floating in the vat of her soft skull. Her brain. She has no need for suffering. So she disrobed herself from it. She has no need for reason. So she disrobed herself from that loathsome burden too. No need for thoughts. The last layer she peeled off herself. All that remains is a primary soup. The bowl of mindlessness with the reigns rooting at her unquenchable holes.”

The fourth man is still flaccid and there is a vexed look on his face, like a wandering kitten that has suddenly realized the tail leading it does not belong to its mother. He seems to be pressing away from the altar, leaning backward over the fence, mewing frightened pebbles of “No.” He is holding his palms over his cock and hunted in shade or the cold. The other three men, step closer to the slut as if their moment has come.

“Shed your suffering. It is excess robe.

You are not an Alpaca! The only grass that matters isthe wet one between her. Feed her there. And be fed. With the liberation, light and temptations.”

The priestess lifts the pink robe next to the slut’s ankles and launches it upward. It undulates through the air, up and falls right by the fence.

“The warmth you seek is coiled up inside like a frozen river. Feel the sleeping hedonist’s heat and let the torrent serenade her caves.”

The warmth you seek is coiled up inside like a frozen river. Feel the sleeping hedonist’s heat and let the torrent serenade her caves.”

The non-believer lets one cupped palm let go of his cock, and leans down to pick up the robe. The burly men at the other end of the room shift towards the altar.

The slut rests her ass on the floor and spreads her legs wide like a palm tree readying to be shaken by a storm. She pulls her lip thin crisis thong sideways with the tip of a finger. First a column of light kisses her and then the flesh around the bones of her fingers Dip for the flesh in her leaves. The floor below her cracks. While she starts touching herself, her clavicle becomes more visible and then not at the back and forth shortening of her breath. Two steel legs hoist themselves below the breaking floor, and raise the platform at roughly hip level. She is presented for the feasting.

“Let it begin!

Transcend!

Transcend through the whore!!” The priestess’s voice booms through the women, as she points the staff towards the slut.

The womens start chanting in chorus, “Whore!! Whore!! Whore!!” At the same pace, agitating their cocks and pussies. One entrepreneurial woman bends over and starts fucking herself with a rock phallus emanating from a sculpture of the slut and a man in amorous proximity.

The three men surrounding the slut from all sides. The priestess taps the floor with her staff to a loud audible thud. The chorus of “whore!” is silenced and supplanted by wet noises like foliage of loose sea weed slapping against a rock. Only the noises of pleasure must be heard.

The man with the lush bear, climbs up on the platform, his knees perching him at the edge.e slut welcomes him by combining her fingers through his beard, and planning her tongue deep inside his mouth. Their tongues lap loudly enough for everyone’s arousal, sounding urgent like two fishes in shallow water of a low tide. She runs her hands over his boulder like chest, and he cares her at the side and then pinches her melon tipped nipples. Ridges of skin and flesh mistake against one another. She spreads her thick thighs wider and groans her olive breath into the walnut scent of him.

Meanwhile, the non-believer has jumped to the other side of the fence. He ties the discarded robe around his hips like a small skirt, failing to hide the disappointment that is his cock. He scrambles through the orgy and trips stumbling onto the floor, barely saving his teeth from breaking. As he gets up to make a dash again, the burly men tower over him, emotionless. One reaches for his two arms and holds the two wrists over his head. The second renders him motionless by pressing one feet over both his toes.

At the altar, the slut has turned herself on the platform and is on all fours like a Saharan liness in heat. She is over the beared man, who has smuggled himself under on his back. Just when the man with the big cock positions himself in front of her face, the bearded man clenches her ass, supplement in his hand as dough, and slides into her pussy, her folds reddening in layers like an O’Keeffe flower that has found the rest of its plant.

She is panting auditory with her eyes closed, trying to regain her composition. And just when she is about to, the bald tattooed man is over her in a hovering squat. In a moment briefer than the flapping of a humming bird wing, he circles the hole of her ass with his wet fingers, and then stuffs her. Now two cocks, taking turns of going in and out of her lower holes. She wails with Her eyes wide open at the feeling of being so full. And then she gulps and shuts her eyes to open them back to continue some composition. She bites her lip and reach for large cock in front of her. A mix of relief and impatience.

A loud metallic click is heard at scene of the communication on the other side of the fence. A small pink cage hangs between the absconding non-believers’s legs like a cow bell. He has stopped struggle now and is in a blindfold, being carried towards the altar.

The three men are pistoning in and out of her in sync, dipping in and pulling out of her all at once, completely stuffing her and then leaving her empty. Her whimpers are causing the worsties to stroke faster and faster. The sculptures are shaking. Nearly half of the men have soiled the floor already with their cum, unable to contain the image of her getting pounded by three men.

“She is ready,” the priestess announcements.

The three men clnch their stomachs harder to build up the intensity. The gaps Between her grunts get smaller and smaller, like drops of a tap shaking from sudden pressure. The hips slapping against her ass are nearly as noisy as her lips slobbering over the cock she is bobbing over like a sea mammal diving in and out in loops. And then her screams and their grunts waltz into each other, till thrust after thrust, hot ooze of cum leaks out from the gaps between the cocks and her holes to wet noises.

One final deep slow thrust and they pull out in tandem. Almost everyone in the room looks sated, drops of sweat rolling of every island of skin and bones.

The slut stays on all fours heaving, looking like a sugar pine with crystal syrup drops leaking out of its breaking gaps.

The non-believer is forced by the burly men on his knees next to the platform as it lowers down. The man tries to get up towards the direction of the large door, only to find large arms pin him back at the shoulder. His knees graze Uncomfortably to earn a visible red briising.

He stops his struggle. First to stop his knees from briising. And then his nose bristles, as if some stench hascaught his attention. He leans forward, unable to see with his blindfold, trying to find the source of the smell. The wagers can see his nose barely an inch away from the small river of cum stagnant at her butthole and pussy.

The three men have backed off towards their waiting area, prideful smiles of different shades hanging like cloaks, almost as low and glazed as their worshipped cocks.

The non-believed Raises his tongue like a suspicious mongrel that has found discarded food in a usually empty alley way.

The slut stops her panting and starts squirming at her hips. And then pushes her large butt back, nearly enveloping the non-believer’s face, minuscule in comparison. His slow wag starts waving like a flag against a strong wind.

She turns back and whispers back to him.

“Yes. Clean me, you low filter.”

His ears shudder at her going. Like a wild deer, initially scared of being fed by a human, he lets of himself into her butthole. He then lowers himself more and licks the drops of cum dripping from her pussy on to puddle on the floor like it’s cleaning soap for his years of skepticism.

She wipes a few drops off her lips, and turns back to push the non-believer’s head against the puddle he is cleaning up. She takes off her drenched thong and stuffs it in his mouth. His cage shakes, his cock feeling free in its prison, a weight lifted off it by his salivating tongue. She’s on her feet now.

She lifts her leg and places it upon his cheek, forcing it onto the wet patch. The image is going to be embossed on the minds of the womens. The slut, with her Crimson collar, and now bare cunt, shoulders pulled backwards, the power of her heels on this non-believer.

The non-believer has tears rolling down his eyes. It’s heat a dash of hysteria and revelation. The tears are forming small patches on his blindfold a little puddle by his cheek.

“I can see now!”

It’s just a murmur at first. And then he shouts loudly.