Reaming in the rectory, Father Anthony Recio thought amusedly, mentally patting himself on the back. A great title, he mused, should he leave the clergy for a career in film. As the priest at St. Christopher’s, he was quite popular with a good many of his female parishioners, particularly the young and attractive and horny who found their new priest’s charm, charisma, and good looks absolutely irresistible.

Now, face buried between the legs of his blonde organist, Father Recio thanked God for his good fortune. The St. Christopher’s assignment was his best yet. Thus far he had bedded eight—nine if one counted his present conquest—members of his congregation.

The priest slid his tongue up and down the organist’s wet slit, driving her wild with excitement. She moaned with delight, both hands occupied with her mammoth tits, which she fondled, caressed, and kneaded. Father Recio had already licked those luscious mounds, suckling and nibbling her nipples before working his way down to his present location. He darted his tongue across her clit, prompting the organist to arch her back. He couldn’t wait to fuck her good and proper.

“Oh, yes, Father. Just like that. You eat my pussy so good.”

The priest came up for a breather. “A token of my appreciation for the fine music you play each and every Sunday.”

In truth, she was a mediocre organist at best, but he wasn’t about to burst her bubble, at least not until he had burst something else enough times to grow bored.

He went back to work, lapping her pussy with eager strokes, savoring her scent and flavor. Kneeling at the foot of his bed, he reached down and stroked himself, sliding his hand up and down, prepping his cock for the forthcoming fun.

“My pussy is so wet. I’m ready, Father. Stick it in.”

Father Recio didn’t have to be told twice. He stood, positioned his hips between her legs, and guided his prick between her puffy pink lips. He skewered her slowly, inch by inch, until his shaft disappeared inside her. The organist wrapped her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles behind his ass. The priest proceeded to fuck her with fervent thrusts, plunging his turgid member repeatedly.

Golden locks fanned out on his white comforter, her huge tits bouncing and jiggling. She was a most marvelous specimen, the finest of all God’s creatures. A tit man to the core, Father Recio had every intention of finishing between those stellar jugs.

And the time was now.

He could feel the sauce bubbling within his balls.

The priest pulled out and sat on the edge of the bed, telling the organist exactly what he wanted. She complied wholeheartedly, kneeling on the floor between his legs. Once again, Father Recio guided his dick into a tight space. The organist squeezed her tits together, forming a snug canal for his pleasure. He watched with awe as she slid her colossal cans up and down his turgid shaft. Her considerable cleavage was warm and soft. And she knew how to use it. No doubt she had done this many times before.

Father Recio couldn’t hold out any longer. He had intended to extract his cock before jerking off all over her nipples, but he didn’t have time. His cock exploded, spewing copious amounts of jolly jam all over the organist’s face, rope after creamy rope. She held her tits through it all, squeezing them tightly, milking the priest dry.

She was cleaning up in the bathroom when his cell phone bleated. He checked the number. Clifton Hawthorne, one of his parishioners. Father Recio had banged Clifton’s wife, Brenda, on several occasions. Still, he wasn’t worried about the call. Clifton was far too stupid to have learned of his dalliances with Brenda. The guy probably wanted to ask some dipshit question about the upcoming cover dish supper.

Ever attentive to the needs of his flock, the priest took Clifton’s call.

And was immediately plunged into a nightmare.


Clifton and Brenda Hawthorne lived several miles outside of town in the sticks. Father Recio had driven the rural roads grudgingly, wishing he were still at the rectory with the nubile organist. It was far too late to be behind the wheel way out in the boonies. Still, Clifton had sounded awfully desperate over the phone, begging and pleading for help. As a man of the cloth, it was Father Recio’s responsibility to provide aid.

Now he stood before the closed door of an aluminum tool shed behind Clifton’s house, wondering if the distraught husband was off his rocker.

“I kept her in the house for as long as I could,” Clifton explained. “At least until the stench became unbearable.”


Clifton slid the door open. The fetid gust hit Father Recio like a giant fist. Coughing and gagging, he turned his head and covered his mouth as he waited for the pent-up funk to dissipate. He could actually see it, a greenish vapor pouring from the depths of Clifton’s tool shed like some kind of stage effect at a rock concert.

Clifton had pulled his T-shirt up over his mouth and nose. Father Recio waved the fog away as best he could. It took a minute or two for the stuff to clear…

Brenda was stretched out atop an air mattress in a filthy wife-beater and boxers. She was alive, her chest rising and falling, but her condition was poor. Suppurating lesions covered every inch of her body. Her eyes were milky yellow orbs staring into space. Vile green slime oozed from her mouth.

“I don’t know what to do,” Clifton said. “I tried to take her to the hospital, but she went ape-shit bonkers, damn near clawed my eyes out.”

Father Recio’s expression was grave. He pulled no punches in providing a diagnosis, relating the brutal truth in a clipped tone. “She’s possessed.”

Clifton looked at the priest. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“A demon has taken up residence inside your wife.”

Despite his ability to recognize the exceedingly rare phenomenon, Father Recio was hardly trained to help the woman. She needed a priest of a much higher caliber, a hotshot clergyman properly schooled in dealing with such matters.

“It wants you to kill her,” he told Clifton.

“Kill her?”

“That’s correct. It wants you to end her misery. Then, and only then, can it totally claim her soul for Satan.”

“I don’t want her to suffer, Father. But I can’t do it.”

“Does anybody know about this?” Father Recio asked.

“Nobody,” Clifton replied. “I called her boss, told him she had a really bad case of the flu and wouldn’t be in for the rest of the week. I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him what I suspected. He would’ve thought I was off my rocker.”

Brenda emitted a throaty growl. Fresh slime oozed from between her swollen, cracked lips. She grinned, exposing a mouthful of misshapen brown teeth.

Father Recio regarded her with a peculiar mix of disgust and sadness. Brenda, one of the loveliest parishioners he had ever screwed, had been transformed into a hideous monster straight out of a horror movie. Just two weeks prior, they had met at the rectory for one of their torrid trysts. He had fucked her silly, making her come before shooting his wad all over her angelic face, a countenance presently morphed into the most horrific Halloween mask imaginable.

If he didn’t act soon, she would surely die. Time was of the essence. It would take far too long to secure the services of a qualified exorcist. Brenda needed help now. He was her best chance, Father Recio knew, her only chance…

“Can you help her, Father?” Clifton asked. “Please tell me you can help—”

“Perhaps,” Father Recio said, “but I’ll need some holy water.” He peered at Clifton. “Go inside and fetch me a glass from the tap. And make it quick. I’m afraid she doesn’t have much time.”

Clifton took off like a rocket, dashing across the moonlit yard. He returned in less than a minute with a tall glass of water. Father Recio went through his routine with much haste, one he had performed countless times, morphing regular water into the holy variety.


Brenda had deteriorated rapidly. Now slime oozed from her crusty ears and flared nostrils, comingling with the steady stream from her mouth. She had torn off her boxers for masturbatory purposes. Clifton took one look at her cunt and damn near fainted. Her once velvety pink lips looked like rotten cold cuts.

Crucifix clutched in one hand, glass of holy water in the other, Father Recio struggled mightily to suppress a wave of nausea. He stepped forward on unsteady legs. His hand trembled, making it difficult to hold on to the water glass.

“Our Father,” he began, “who art in Heaven…hallowed be thy name…”

Waving the crucifix back and forth, Father Recio doused Brenda with the holy water, slinging it across her stomach. Her skin sizzled and smoked like fresh meat on a grill. She writhed and wailed.

“That’s it, Father!” Clifton said. “Soak her good!”

Father Recio did just that, splashing Brenda again and again, all the while waving his crucifix wildly. He prayed and chanted, beseeching the abominable demon to vacate its host, doing his best impression of a bona fide exorcist.

He ran out of water seconds before the demon responded. Brenda’s ruined lips moved, but the voice was not hers. Rather, the demon spoke through her, addressing Father Recio with a gravelly declaration—


 Clifton’s face twisted with confusion. Getaways at the rectory? he wondered. What in the hell was that all about?

Father Recio took note of the man’s baffled expression. “Don’t listen to it, Clifton. The demon is trying to form a wedge between us.”


“Now hold on a minute,” Clifton said, shifting his gaze to Father Recio.

The priest kept on manipulating the crucifix, moving it up and down, left and right. Of course, Clifton didn’t want to believe what the demon was saying. But something wouldn’t let him dismiss the troubling disclosure. He recalled Father Recio’s seemingly harmless quips about what an attractive woman Brenda was, his countless casual comments about how lucky Clifton was to have such a beautiful young wife.

He wanted to fuck her, Clifton thought with sudden clarity. Father Recio wanted to ball my wife! And he did! The sorry self-righteous bastard poked my Brenda! It’s true, every word spewing from her mouth! Because the devil don’t lie!


An enraged Clifton pushed Father Recio. The priest dropped his crucifix. The empty glass hit the concrete floor and exploded.

“You sorry son of a bitch!” Clifton screamed. “You screwed my wife!”

Father Recio had recoiled against the shed’s wall. Now he stood there, his expression betraying much fear as Clifton’s anger escalated.

“How many times, Father? Huh? And how long has this been going on?”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Clifton. Don’t you see? The demon wants us to destroy each other. We’re a threat to its existence. It wants to pit us against—”


Snarling with rage, Clifton reared back and clocked Father Recio with a devastating right cross to the jaw. The priest staggered, yet remained upright. But Clifton wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. He grabbed a shovel propped in the corner and swung with everything he had. The spade cleaved Father Recio’s skull with a sickening pop. A pink mist spattered the wall. The priest dropped like a sack of fertilizer.

Heart hammering, Clifton held the shovel’s handle in a white-knuckle grip. He felt vindicated, but only partly so. After all, it takes two to tango.

He looked at his possessed wife with disgust. “You miserable harlot.”

She flashed her hideous grin, continuing to pleasure herself. Things were different now. The situation had changed rapidly. He no longer felt sorry for her. The bitch had betrayed him in the worst way, balling their goddamned priest.

Clifton actually felt indebted to the demon. The damnable thing had spilled the beans. Otherwise, Clifton would’ve remained a clueless cuckold. He supposed he owed the demon a payment. And that payment was a no-brainer. Clifton recalled Father Recio’s words. It wants you to kill her, the priest had said.

So that’s what Clifton did; killed her just like he had killed Father Recio. He brought the shovel down with all his might. Her head exploded like a pumpkin.


Standing on the patio, cold beer in hand, Clifton gazed at the tool shed.

The green vapor had returned. The stuff had started up shortly after he had killed Brenda. Now it poured from the shed. Apparently it took a long time for a demon to vacate its host. The fog kept coming and coming, a seemingly endless supply, like smoke from the window of a burning building.

Clifton sighed wearily. As soon as the vapor cleared, he would begin the grisly task of chopping and sawing and bagging, prepping the bodies for proper disposal.

It was going to be a long night.