The monastery chamber reeks of pine and wax. Snow howls outside, full moon piercing the frosted window. I, Bishop Giampiero, 75, frail, chaste since 15, sip the shimmering Violetta left on the table. Warmth floods my veins. Heart pounds like a war drum. Skin prickles, hot under my nightshirt. I drift on clouds, euphoric. Then it hits low—throbbing, swelling. Eyes snap open. My cock rears up, monstrous, tenting the fabric. Impossible. Huge, veined, pulsing with unholy life. Hands grip it—two palms can’t encircle the beast. Pulse races, sweat beads on my forehead. Chastity shatters. Lust surges, raw, demanding pussy. Virgin to flesh, now craving to bury this miracle deep. Devil? No—divine gift. I stroke, electricity jolts, balls tighten. Door knocks. Sister Concetta enters with coffee. She sees, screams, flees. But Sister Caterina follows. Eyes lock on my erection. Door shuts. I lunge, feral. Rip her habit, yank panties. Heart hammers. Her thighs part under my grip. She fights—’Stop, Monsignore!’—but I ram in. Tight, wet heat engulfs half my length. Pain for her, ecstasy for me. She yelps. I thrust wild, clumsy at first, then savage. Hips slam, sweat slicks our skin. Her cries turn moans. She rides me now, tits bouncing, ass slapped red. Pulse thunders in my ears. Her pussy milks me, walls clenching. Cum erupts, flooding her. We roar. Sisters eavesdrop outside, frozen.
Midnight. Door creaks again. Mother Superior slips in, naked, hesitant. ‘Monsignore…’ I devour her bush with candlelight, spread her cheeks, probe her ass. She whimpers, legs splayed. Cock hardens anew, insatiable. I mount her missionary, pounding deep. Bed creaks like thunder. Her nails rake my back, heartbeats sync in frenzy. ‘Giampiero!’ she gasps. I flip her, ass up, ream her sopping cunt. Sweat drips, skin slaps wet. She screams orgasm, convulsing. I unload, seed spilling. Sisters Irène and Caterina listen, fingers in their slits, aroused.
The Fever
Next nights blur into orgy. Young Irène knocks. ‘Your cock in my pussy, Monsignore.’ I strip her slow—habit off, bra unhooked, panties peeled. Candle glows her pale skin. She pisses in my chamber pot, golden stream from shaved slit. Mesmerizing. I caress her nipples hard, clit swollen. She begs. I spear her tiny frame, stretch her wide. Legs wrap me, heels dig. Thrusts brutal, balls slap ass. Her heart races against my chest, breaths ragged. She cums squirting, soaking sheets. I fill her, groaning.
The Blaze
Blaze rages weeks. Rotate sisters—Caterina’s experienced grip, Irène’s tight youth, Mother’s hairy depths. Full moons amplify: cocksuck till jaws ache, asses fucked raw, cunts double-fisted. Sweat-soaked habits discarded. Pulses sync in rut. Cum everywhere—faces, tits, insides.
Spring thaws snow. Secretary comes. My heart gives out mid-thrust, cock still buried in Caterina. Infarctus, they say. But ashes smolder. Skin cooling, yet branded by heat. I tasted total possession—dangerous, devouring bliss. Violetta’s curse? Heaven’s fire. Even death throbs with afterglow.