Calvin Mason - Gang bang sisters

Tom stepped away momentarily, returning with an object that Cynthia got a quick glimpse of over her shoulder. It looked like it might be a chair, from the way he carried it, but it was draped in black cloth. He placed it behind her and reached over to throw the switch, turning on the bright white spot. She could see, even feel, the eyes of everyone in the room devouring her naked body. It made her tingle inside.

"To confirm your dedication to Satan, Sister Cynthia, you must sit on the Devil's Throne," Tom announced, turning her again to face the cloth-covered object. Then he took a corner of the cloth, whipped it off, undraping a clear-plastic chair.

"A hhhh… mmmmmm… ohhhhh," went around the room.

Cynthia's jaw dropped when she saw what was attached to the seat a long, clear-plastic, perfectly shaped phallus. Her eyes widened at the size of it; convinced it was much too big to fit inside her. But Tom was already turning her around again, positioning her closer to the chair.

"Dedicate yourself to Satan, my daughter, lowering yourself on this replica of his penis."

Cynthia doubted she could get the length and width of that thing inside her, but was game to try. She gripped the arm rests, slowly lowered herself to a point where the clear-plastic, heart-shaped head just touched her soft, warm, vaginal lips. A chill shot through her when the ice-cold rod touched her flaming cunt. She paused briefly, noting that all eyes were focused between her legs, watching with awe as the shaft began its entrance into the depths of her body. A little lower… testing… feeling her lips spread over the smooth shiny knob. Little by little she lowered herself until the big, fat head was completely inside her. She could feel the cold contour of it plugging the gateway to her tunnel of pleasure, the flaming walls of her cunt slowly warming the cold plastic rod.

Now that the head was in, she proceeded to see how much of the length she could accommodate. Every inch had to be warmed before she could go on to the next. The viewers seemed to be holding their breaths, watching in disbelief as she laboriously impaled herself on the giant cock. It seemed like forever, she thought, before the seat of the chair came close to touching her smooth, white buttocks. Finally, with a few soft bounces, she managed to complete the feat, gingerly sitting on the cold seat, then resting completely as her body heat warmed the chair. But she didn't relax, or couldn't relax, with her cunt crammed full of cock, feeling every minute detail.

"Rise, Daughter of Satan, Priestess of the Devil," Tom chanted.

Cynthia slid off the giant phallus, creating an urgency in her cunt that almost drove her back down. But Tom already had her hand and was leading her to the sacrifice table, where he had her stretch out.

"Jay Schmidtline…" Tom said, signaling with his hand for Jay to come forward. "Fuck thy sister."

Jay dropped his robe, climbed on the table and drove his hot, swollen meat into the panting cunt of his sister. Cynthia screeched with delight, dug her nails into his back and convulsed with wild pleasure, in an uncontrollable orgasm, giving out animal moans throughout.

"… Mmmmmm…" she finally sighed as Jay splashed his juices onto the walls of her red-hot furnace. Instead of quenching the fire, it kindled another.

"Hans Schmidtline," Tom was saying as Jay climbed off the table. "Fuck thy sister."

Hans quickly took his brother's place, driving his throbbing, dripping cock into the craving cunt.

"Ohhhh… More, more, more… MORE!" Cynthia's voice came from deep in her throat, scratching Hans with her clawing fingers. "Come, baby, COME! Oh yeah… that's good… mmmmmm!"

There wasn't a person present that wasn't affected by the scenes of lust. Margaret Leche was having an orgasm with the pillow between her legs and Charles had already splashed his come all over the pillow he was kneeling on.

When Hans finished he went back to his place in the semicircle of frustrated viewers, leaving Cynthia in a limp mass of exhaustion on the table.

Tom recovered enough from his own sense of urgent need to announce, "Now one of our guests will dedicate herself to Satan."

The smaller of the two masked guests rose and walked over to the chair. She gathered her robe up around her waist and began to impale herself on the warm, lubricated phallus. Everyone watched her gently lower herself on the awesome spear; working it in and out sensually, enjoying every inch of penetration, using it to satisfy her craving, drooling cunt. When she reached the seat she was making gurgling noises in her throat. She didn't just sit there motionless, the way Cynthia had, but squirmed and rocked in sheer enjoyment.

"Rise, Daughter of Satan, Priestess of the Devil," Tom chanted again… paused for a moment… then went over to coax her off the spike.

As soon as she was clear of the swollen mushroom head, she pushed Tom, causing him to fall back on the table Cynthia occupied. Cynthia quickly vacated the spot, just as the masked girl dove on top of Tom, tearing open his cape and quickly impaling herself on his cock. She rode him like a galloping horse, finally reaching the peak of excitement, when she tore off her mask, dove down to cover his mouth with her own, sucking the very breath from his lungs.

There was a scream from one of the spectators, quickly muffled by a hand over the mouth. It was Margaret Leche. She sat there wide-eyed, hand holding back another outburst, mesmerized by the sight of Stella wildly fucking Tom on the table.

Stella and Tom reached an furious climax together, which Stella managed to work into a second orgasm before Tom's pecker went limp and slipped out of her. They got off the table in good spirits, smiling at each other, but suddenly struck at the same time by the thought of Margaret. They both shot a glance in Margaret's direction to see her sitting on the pillow, rocking back and forth, obviously reaching the point of another orgasm.

At this point everyone was in a frenzy to quench his own thirst for satisfaction, but Tom brought the group back to order.

"Now we must have a token sacrifice to celebrate this wonderful event. Edward Cramer, come forward."

Before Ed could move, Jay and Charles had him under the arms and delivered him to Tom. Cynthia handed them two leather straps and they secured Ed's hands behind his back, made him kneel and then tied his ankles together.

"You will show your love for your fellow members by soul-kissing their asses, Edward Cramer," Cynthia said in an official-sounding voice.

There were giggles and movement now as the members rose to take part. Ed never even noticed Margaret Leche step behind him with a ping-pong paddle. She stood ready to apply the paddle, with its pimple-covered rubber pad, to his vulnerable white mounds of ass-flesh.

Cynthia was given the honor of going first. She bent, spread her cheeks and backed up to his face. He kissed the button-hole quickly and withdrew.

"Oh, come now. That's not a soul-kiss," Cynthia said over her shoulder.

Ed hesitated, reluctant to carry out his sentence. He felt the sting of the paddle land on his right asscheek.

"Hey!" he protested. The paddle landed on his left cheek. "Knock it off!"

Giggles started to go through the crowd, giving Ed a feeling of hopelessness. Margaret applied the paddle to his right cheek again, leaving an impression on the soft white meat as she added a little more power to the blow. Now his right cheek had little white indentations, surrounded by a pink glow. She gave his left cheek a similar pattern and Ed quickly decided to do what he was told.

Cynthia was watching over her shoulder, poised for his tongue, felt a little wet invasion and ordered, "More."

Pause… tip of his tongue still in her rectum… paddle sting on his ass… he pushed his tongue in a little farther.