22-08-2026, 10:31 AM
The hands never stayed on the shoulders for long.
After the false positioning was done, his palms began to move. They slid slowly down the length of her arms, then left the arms completely and came around her back. In one steady motion he pulled her forward until her body was crushed tightly against his thin, sweaty frame. The hug was complete and greedy. His arms locked around her waist and upper back like thin iron, forcing her heavy breasts flat against his chest. The orange cloth of his priest’s dress was damp with his sweat. She could smell the stale odour of his body mixed with camphor and oil. Lower down, the hard shape of his cock pressed openly against her lower stomach and the upper part of her mound, already stiff and shameless.
He held the hug far longer than any blessing required, and his mouth became filthy.
While he kept her locked against him he began to speak in a low, thick voice right next to her ear. He told her that the Goddess wanted her body pressed fully to his. He told her that her heavy breasts needed to be crushed against him for the blessing to enter. He told her that the hardness she felt against her stomach was also part of the ritual, that the Goddess was using his cock to test her devotion. The words were disgusting, wet, and direct. Some women tried to turn their faces away or push at his chest. He only tightened his thin arms and pressed his hard cock more firmly against them, whispering that if they resisted the blessing would turn into a curse on their husbands and children.
After the hug came the kissing.
He would release one arm just enough to grab her jaw, force her face up, and smash his mouth onto hers. His lips were thin and dry at first, then wet and greedy. He pushed his tongue inside at once, thick and sour-tasting, licking deep into her mouth as if he was trying to eat the air from her lungs. While he kissed her in that filthy way one hand stayed locked on her waist. The other hand moved up, found the full weight of her breast over the blouse and bra, and squeezed it hard — fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumb scbanging roughly across her nipple. He made small grunting sounds into her mouth as he felt her. He rubbed his hard cock against her mound in slow, deliberate strokes while he continued to tongue-fuck her mouth and maul her breast.
The women endured it for the blessing.
The fear that the Goddess might truly punish them, that their children might fall sick or their husbands might meet with accidents if they broke the ritual, kept many of them from shouting or fighting with full strength. They stood frozen inside the closed inner chamber, mouths filled with the priest’s disgusting tongue, breasts being squeezed and rubbed, the hard length of his cock grinding against them through their clothes, while the ancient black stone idol of the Goddess watched in silence. He only stopped when he decided the “blessing” was complete, leaving them with wet mouths, aching breasts, and the thick smell of his sweat clinging to their blouses.
His favourite was my aunt Kasiamma.
She was a beautiful woman even in her grief. Her face had a soft, classical grace that belonged to an older time — large, expressive eyes that could look both gentle and deep with sorrow, a smooth fair complexion with a natural warm glow, a straight elegant nose, and full soft lips that stayed slightly parted when she was lost in thought. Her hair was thick and long, usually tied in a simple knot, with a few loose strands framing her face. Her body was full and womanly. Her breasts were heavy and round, her waist still curved inward, her hips wide and soft, her thighs thick and smooth. Even after years of marriage and motherhood she carried a quiet, mature beauty that made people look at her twice.
Kasiamma had lost her only son, Santosh.
The boy had died suddenly, and the loss had broken something inside her.
After the false positioning was done, his palms began to move. They slid slowly down the length of her arms, then left the arms completely and came around her back. In one steady motion he pulled her forward until her body was crushed tightly against his thin, sweaty frame. The hug was complete and greedy. His arms locked around her waist and upper back like thin iron, forcing her heavy breasts flat against his chest. The orange cloth of his priest’s dress was damp with his sweat. She could smell the stale odour of his body mixed with camphor and oil. Lower down, the hard shape of his cock pressed openly against her lower stomach and the upper part of her mound, already stiff and shameless.
He held the hug far longer than any blessing required, and his mouth became filthy.
While he kept her locked against him he began to speak in a low, thick voice right next to her ear. He told her that the Goddess wanted her body pressed fully to his. He told her that her heavy breasts needed to be crushed against him for the blessing to enter. He told her that the hardness she felt against her stomach was also part of the ritual, that the Goddess was using his cock to test her devotion. The words were disgusting, wet, and direct. Some women tried to turn their faces away or push at his chest. He only tightened his thin arms and pressed his hard cock more firmly against them, whispering that if they resisted the blessing would turn into a curse on their husbands and children.
After the hug came the kissing.
He would release one arm just enough to grab her jaw, force her face up, and smash his mouth onto hers. His lips were thin and dry at first, then wet and greedy. He pushed his tongue inside at once, thick and sour-tasting, licking deep into her mouth as if he was trying to eat the air from her lungs. While he kissed her in that filthy way one hand stayed locked on her waist. The other hand moved up, found the full weight of her breast over the blouse and bra, and squeezed it hard — fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumb scbanging roughly across her nipple. He made small grunting sounds into her mouth as he felt her. He rubbed his hard cock against her mound in slow, deliberate strokes while he continued to tongue-fuck her mouth and maul her breast.
The women endured it for the blessing.
The fear that the Goddess might truly punish them, that their children might fall sick or their husbands might meet with accidents if they broke the ritual, kept many of them from shouting or fighting with full strength. They stood frozen inside the closed inner chamber, mouths filled with the priest’s disgusting tongue, breasts being squeezed and rubbed, the hard length of his cock grinding against them through their clothes, while the ancient black stone idol of the Goddess watched in silence. He only stopped when he decided the “blessing” was complete, leaving them with wet mouths, aching breasts, and the thick smell of his sweat clinging to their blouses.
His favourite was my aunt Kasiamma.
She was a beautiful woman even in her grief. Her face had a soft, classical grace that belonged to an older time — large, expressive eyes that could look both gentle and deep with sorrow, a smooth fair complexion with a natural warm glow, a straight elegant nose, and full soft lips that stayed slightly parted when she was lost in thought. Her hair was thick and long, usually tied in a simple knot, with a few loose strands framing her face. Her body was full and womanly. Her breasts were heavy and round, her waist still curved inward, her hips wide and soft, her thighs thick and smooth. Even after years of marriage and motherhood she carried a quiet, mature beauty that made people look at her twice.
Kasiamma had lost her only son, Santosh.
The boy had died suddenly, and the loss had broken something inside her.
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