When the Dark Wins

by Addison Cain

  The red mats pillowed nicely under knees and feet and asses. They might not be that uncomfortable. Just to lie down. Get filled. A body pinning hers, warm. Giving.

  Fuck! Stop it!

  Her hips tilted. Buckeye ground at nothing.

  Mather was closing in her direction, knocking away Vicer resistance as he came like a series of vases on a shelf. Another pair moved to the mats. One of the priests was urging his partner to roll to her belly. A noise came from Buckeye’s throat when she thought about her breasts flattening to the lurid vinyl that way. Her nipples were tight, angry points.

  No! You’re stronger than this, Wheeler!

  The priest who’d bound her had made no sound at all, but when the man in the white cassock stepped near at last, he slid into Buckeye’s view from her right. An erection tented his trousers. Mather’s face was a picture of infinite patience, hands still folded behind his back.

  She looked from cold blue-grey eyes to a darker brown set, the one unaffected, the other burning with need. Her spine curled. She had to breathe through her mouth. The metal tubing bruised between her cheeks.

  Mather leaned in and spoke near her ear. “Are you ready to serve Brother Raymond?”

  Buckeye whipped her head back and forth, a vehement ‘no’, her eyes wide. The priest in black, Brother Raymond, tugged at the length in his pants through fabric. It was not small.

  “Brother Raymond is here to help you learn, Sinner.” Mather’s voice was insidious. “Will you not serve him in this?”

  She whimpered, body contorting to try to drag her humming cunt along the metal. Anything. There was no reaching it. There was no scratching the itch.

  He’ll scratch it.

  She ran her tongue over her lips.

  No!

  Kept an eye on that moving fist. The hard ridge it outlined.

  They’re gonna get you anyway.

  The priest was young. Probably her age, or somewhere near. Clean-shaven. Fit. She could do worse.

  Fuck you!

  “Will you serve?” said Mather.

  Her open-mouthed nod looked just like the others.

  Nothing happened. No one moved to release her wrists.

  “Will you serve?” The repetition was identical in tone to the original.

  Desperation surged up her throat.

  “Yes!” Surely now. Now they would let her have it. She humped at the air, eyes locked with Brother Raymond’s. There must have been some instruction for the priests not to touch the Vicers until they’d agreed, because his face looked like he was ready to be all over her.

  “Yes, what?”

  Buckeye searched the invisible for what it was Mather wanted. When she found it, she wanted to heave, but the pulse between her legs made her choke out the answer.

  “Yes, Father.”

  Mather gave a nod. Brother Raymond bent to her manacles.

  There was no need for force as she stepped away from the restraints. The young priest was moving backward to the mat, fingers already tricking open his fly, reaching in to lift an erect cock and point it out through the gap. Even as Buckeye sank to her knees, eyes glazed with want, he was gathering his balls to hang them over the divided fabric.

  Her fingers wrapped the shaft without preamble. The plump, livid head became the focus of her world. It begged to be swallowed, and Buckeye did.

  The priest controlled a hum when she took him into her mouth. Grunted when she started helping meat to the back of her tongue with a pumping fist. Her pussy throbbed, effervescent in the grip of The Song. She choked and slobbered on him, rabid in a way she could never remember of the times she’d tried to please a man in The Vice.

  It didn’t last.

  Just as she’d found her stride, Brother Raymond pulled away, trailing a spiderweb-thin line of saliva from her lower lip to his glossy prick. Buckeye was dazed, lost, but he was dropping to a knee, an arm out to help her further down on the mat.

  She needed no such assistance.

  In a breath, the ceiling was behind his head. Her shoulders and tailbone sank into the brief padding. Thighs fell open like pages in a book, and the priest was there, reading between the lines.

  He knelt, bracing on one arm. The other hand aimed and sluiced his cock through the wet disaster she spread for him. Buckeye had no idea what to do with her hands, but it didn’t matter.

  The priest was inside her.

  He was inside, and she did the opposite of fending him off. A tiny, caged part of her mind shrieked and rattled the bars for her to stop—for the love of all that was left of her, stop!—but the drug roared over it, obliterating. The moment their bodies kissed together, they both seized a rhythm out of the humid air and launched into their fucking like a song.

  The Song.

  I don’t care. I don’t care.

  He plumbed his length down into her, not so slow and careful as the other priests she’d seen, and Buckeye met him with greedy hips. The chafe of fabric on her inner thighs had her leaking more arousal, slicking his path. His Adam’s apple bobbed over that white collar insert a few inches above her nose, and she would’ve craned her neck to bite it if she thought she could reach.

  Buckeye pressed her heels into his flexing ass, urging him home. Brother Raymond’s face was tight, concentration intense on the sin of pounding his cock into writhing Vicer body. He was beautiful in some perverse way and, in the grip of these Covvie drugs, Buckeye thought she could watch him sweat and thrust and violate her body forever.

  And then she was empty.

  The whine that squeezed out of her throat rose at the end like a question. Her pussy flexed and gaped at nothing, a suckling mouth chasing after a withdrawn nipple.

  The priest was untangling their limbs, Straddling her hips. Clambering up past her belly and ribs. Her pulse sped as his knees pressed into the mat on either side of her neck.

  Oh, god.

  His eyes were downcast, intent from much further above, but the looming foreground was all sticky manhood.

  The scent of him—of her!—overwhelmed as he aimed the fat crown at her mouth. Buckeye opened, delirious, and let him push the flare past her top teeth. Let him scrub it over her palate. She closed on him, the taste of her own body twanging her salivary glands even as she let the girth flatten her tongue.

  Black trousers a few inches from her face were a backdrop for invading and retreating cock. Again, he braced on a palm. Found an angle that fit the bulk of him to the entrance of her throat. Began fucking.

  He went at a careful pace this time, as though if he didn’t take pains to go slow, to savor every texture and flutter, he’d lose control and drown her right there.

  There was nothing for it. His thighs might have been trapping Buckeye’s shoulders, but her hands were sure as hell free. The right one wandered between her legs, fingers slipping through arousal. She found her clit swollen, sensitive, and she worried it under her touch, the little bud slip-sliding back and forth, while a Covvie priest used her mouth like it was the only chance he would ever get.

  Her fingers danced, speeding along with Brother Raymond’s hips, no thought for who might see her spread and pink on the vinyl mat. She sputtered here and there on his cock, his thrusts more careless now and breaching the back of her throat.

  Out of the corner of her eye, the hem of a white cassock flowed near. The presence broke the illusion of a world consisting only of her and Brother Raymond. Other people were here. Mather was here.

  Her hand stayed at work. So did the priest in black.

  The head of the church took a knee, hiking white fabric as he went. Buckeye’s cheeks hollowed and filled, lips stretching around a moving organ while her eyes rolled up to meet the second pair looking down.

  “Obedience is service,” he said. “Does it not satisfy to obey Brother Raymond? To serve the Church in this way?”

  Her pussy surged. Fingers scrubbed harder at her clit.

  Oh please, no.

  Cool fingertips brushed her forehead. Mather
was moving damp hair back from her sweat-beaded brow, his hand inches away from pumping cock. She gurgled profanity around the meat, unintelligible, and closed her eyes.

  “His penance will come later,” Mather said, “but for now, he will teach you. He will sin upon your body and you will accept it.”

  Buckeye groaned and crammed three fingers into her pouting hole. The heel of her palm slapped her clit in a furious rhythm.

  His voice went on like a litany. “You will accept him and any other man of the cloth who must purge himself of transgression.”

  Raymond panted overhead, balls plumping against her chin as he thrust. Mather spoke as if nothing were happening.

  “You will accept them on your knees. You will accept them on your back. You will open yourself in any way they ask, Sinner, because you are a servant now.” Cock rooted to fill her mouth, and her eyes bugged, skull rocking back and forth to make room for air. “You will complete your service to Brother Raymond and thank him for his blessing.”

  She rode her own hand, eyes rolling wild, as the Covvie priest groaned and crammed more of himself than ever into her mouth.

  “This is your opportunity, Brother.” Mather switched his attention to Raymond. “Tell her what shameful things you want. Let her show you obedience.” The dick on her tongue flexed at this, and the younger priest hissed.

  “Tell her.”

  Raymond’s free hand threaded fingers between the back of her head and the mat. He cradled her skull and drew in a breath as he fit his full length down into protesting, squirming tissue.

  “T-take it,” he said. “Sssuck my cock.”

  The words came timid at first, as though he’d never had a chance to say something like that aloud. Let alone have it describe the reality of the moment.

  Buckeye choked, face flaming with effort. She met his eyes. They each seized the connection.

  “Yes.” He was bold, jerking his hips so his cock reamed her face. “Take it.” She snorted and warbled, spit bubbling around girth.

  “Go on,” said Mather.

  “Take it!” Raymond stuffed her, unforgiving. “Oh God oh God, take this cock, you fucking VT whore!”

  Her clit convulsed, blood surging in a massive thump. Buckeye screamed around the battering cock and came all over her own hand like she’d never come before in her life.

  Purple and black flecked at the edge of her vision. The rutting priest gasped, more than once, and seized.

  “Accept his blessing, Servant of the Church.”

  The shaft swelled on her tongue. Kicked and began to pulse. Hot salt jetted into her throat.

  “S-swallow.” A barely-upright Raymond insisted, gripping himself at the base. “Swallow it.”

  Her throat worked without question, but he was pulling back, spending the last of himself down her chin. His head had fallen back, and his fist slicked over his cock, milking as he tried to breathe.

  Buckeye coughed. Panted. Her lips were raw and her cunt hiccoughed pleasure like a drunk. If she made an effort of it, she knew she could come again, But her limbs were slack. The priest was pivoting off her.

  “You will thank the Brother for his blessing.”

  Breath rasped her words into broken pieces. “Tha-ank you. Brother.”

  Mather leaned closer as her head lolled to the side. He spoke even lower than before.

  “I told them to bring me prostitutes,” he said. “They understand service. Transactions.” Her throat was sore, but she tried to focus. Blue-grey eyes scanned her in appraisal. “But my first impressions were correct. I knew you were suited to serve.”

  Her brow furrowed at him, but she couldn’t form words. Semen cooled in the valley beneath her lower lip.

  “Your rag was soaked in a mint extract,” he went on, still quiet. “I wanted to see your responses without The Song. You did not disappoint me.”

  Buckeye reeled as Mather stood. Stared at the ceiling, chest heaving.

  No drugs?

  But …

  So wet.

  She’d come so fucking hard.

  The white cassock retreated. Feet were making sticky noises moving over the mats on either side of her. Some of the pairs were still grunting through it.

  He could be lying.

  She wiped at her chin. Cleaned the side of her fingers with her tongue before she could stop herself.

  Without The Song.

  What am I?

  And the Power, Forever

  “… two thousand twenty-four, the Leaders of the Faithful signed the Information Accord …”

  The placid female voice piped from some speaker Buckeye couldn’t see, somewhere overhead in the barren cell. The words flowed in a quiet, unnerving drone, as though the woman was reading from a history book. A Covvie version of history as warped as the situation she found herself in now.

  Buckeye sat on the floor, her back to the wall opposite the cell door, arms folded around bent knees.

  “… the independence of New Covenant in two thousand twenty-six, Father John Roland James called upon the Justice Division to initiate The Purge for the well-being and salvation of all her citizens. The protection of the newly-founded state wa—”

  “What? Fuck that shit! Are you kidding me?” The woman in the cell adjacent to Buckeye’s thumped at the transparent dividing wall with an angry heel. Buckeye jumped, but the woman was pacing again. “They wanna bring us here and screw us, and then tell us a buncha horseshit that didn’t even happen?”

  “Shut up!” Someone further down the row of cells hollered—and it had to have been a holler, because the dividers were thick. The woman yelling from the next cell sounded muffled as it was.

  The pair volleyed a brief round of insults, a vent to fears over which they had no control, but Buckeye quit paying attention. She was busy trying to untangle the knots of reality.

  Had that rag been soaked in mint? Like Mather said?

  She picked at a hangnail on her thumb, wincing when it went just past ‘too far’.

  But then what about August and Wayland spraying their hoods in the truck? Was that the real deal? The Song? Why would those two assholes stand around debating it if it was fake?

  There was no way her arousal had been natural. Not crammed in there with a dozen people, stinking and sweating and bound. Arm dead asleep.

  “… brief time of upheaval in the mid-twenty-fifties, when popular sentiment called to forgive the Sinners in the Territories …”

  Buckeye grimaced and balled her hands into fists.

  But if Mather was telling the truth? Was that enough? Just standing there watching people fuck?

  But she hadn’t been just standing there. She’d been restrained. And those weren’t just ‘people’ on the red mats. Those were Covvie priests rutting a bunch of VT prisoners.

  There was no way it was a good sign that the memory alone made her more aware of the warmth between her legs.

  You loved it. When he had his cock in you. Couldn’t get enough.

  “… the second bombing of the original wall in twenty-sixty-one led to the construction of …”

  Or was Mather lying about the drug to demoralize her? He’d said a lot of quiet things to Vicers all along that row, and she’d heard none but the words directed at her. Maybe he’d told all of them it was a placebo.

  She pressed her knees together as though she could somehow create a diamond of truth out of any of this if she did it hard enough.

  Her head came to rest on her upper arm, face turned to the row of cells. There were four better-appointed units, now. To reward the four most recent volunteers.

  A man in the nearest one had an erection in hand, head thrown back against the divider, stroking, unashamed. Another woman closer to Buckeye huddled against the back of her door and held her knees to her chest. She was rocking, the movement tiny, but consistent.

  They’re gonna break us all. Volunteers or not.

  “… sending out task forces to investigate reports of illegal communication networks
as recently as twenty-eighty-two …”

  And if she could do what? Manage to disarm a guard as he came to retrieve her? Somehow evade any other guards and run naked through corridors and a parking garage, and then what? Right out into the middle of Virtue?

  She snorted.

  Yeah, that would totally work.

  Buckeye closed her eyes against the soft lights the guards never shut off. At least the people with simple mattresses had a sheet they could pull over their heads.

  ‘You did not disappoint me.’

  Her teeth ground. She could not make that voice go away. And those eyes were there to pierce and judge, every time she let her lids black out her surroundings. Blue-grey like forty days of rain, those eyes delved to the very marrow of who she was.

  ‘You will open yourself in any way they ask, Sinner, because you are a servant now.’

  With or without the drugs, Buckeye Wheeler was afraid.

  Many hours passed. Buckeye slept. It could have been the next morning, but there was no way for her to tell.

  The guards brought food. On one hand, it wasn’t much. Two slices of bread. Half an apple.

  On the other hand, compared to what growhouses in the VT produced, the sparse meal tasted like something out of a fairy tale. And the irony of feeding apples to people the Covvies called ‘sinners’ was not lost on Buckeye at all.

  It was not quite an hour, at her best guess, after the guards had retrieved the last of the empty food trays, that they began removing Vicers from cells.

  But not all at once.

  They came for the woman in the furthest of the better-appointed cells from Buckeye first. Some of the others began to sit up, to stretch limbs, in anticipation of another mass herding along to god-knew-what new ordeal, but it didn’t come.

  The Vicers waited. Many exchanged looks. Shook heads at each other.

  After what felt like twenty or thirty minutes, a second set of guards pulled the woman from the cell adjacent to the first empty one. The wait after this was quick.

  Within moments, they watched the furthest cell door swing inward, and the grey-clad men returned with the first woman to leave. They shut her inside and the rest of the Vicers stood or turned their heads to stare.