The Chronicles of Grailcock: Bk. 01

The Chronicles of Grailcock

Book 1: A Trinity Is Just a Fancy Name for a Threesome

In the beginning... well. It was quite a mess really.

And before you get confused, we're not talking about that beginning. You know the one with the void, light, waters, earth, a stern omniscient voice booming "Let there be stuff!" and poof, there was stuff.

No, that's a different story altogether.

This is just the beginning of our story... And this one is based on facts. Facts! Facts, Facts!

Facts are what matter, after all... and we've got 'em!

But, while we have them, there are many who don't. And thus theological schools remain divided to this day on what, precisely, caused the mess. There are some dour scholars in well ironed white shirts, who believe it was the residue of a former reality... the grime left by the prior tenants who were supposed to leave the apartment "broom clean," but apparently didn't have a broom. Or sponge, for that matter.

Others, much smarter and more attractive, know the facts. And those are us. Me. And soon to be you!

The mess was the result of a divine passion. And you might consider it a passion as in a play, for it was divine, and there was playing. Oh certainly, there was playing. Let's see... there was nipple play, and cum play, and ball play, and ass play, and... Well. You get the idea.

Or maybe you don't... and that's our present task! To get you the Facts!

At the risk of narrative flow, we can say that indeed the passion that resulted in the sticky mess was God's cumshot. And that flood they talk about? It wasn't rain, sweetheart--it was rope after rope of holy ejaculate. God's own spillage, dripping from the firmament like He'd used the Milky Way as a sock. For a very long time.

What matters--what we do know--is that before he was called the Grail Bearer, the Conduit of Cum, or (as one bard was later banned for singing) Cummy McCumster, our redeemer and unknowing guide in the ways of all things slick and sacred was simply:

Sir Cedric of Thistlecock.

Knight. Virgin. Chronically wobbly in both mind and body. And ultimately, our redeemer.

To understand Sir Cedric, we best understand the Trinity... or Threesome, depending on whether you swing Orthodox or Reform.

And the story of the Trinity, indeed, starts at the beginning. (See above.)

Back before saints and sinners.

Before kings and cocks.

Before even foreplay.

Back to when God surveyed his creation, alone in the heavens save for some adolescent angels, and enthusiastic cherubim.

And God, it must be said, was pleased.

He had created light.

He had created time.

He had even, on a rather inspired Tuesday afternoon, built a power-point pitching the idea of something called "foreplay."

Yet, for all His omnipotence, something itched. Tugged.

A void low in his belly.

A wriggling ache under the skin of the cosmos.

In his dreams all he saw was a giggling little hole.

He puzzled over the lingering image of that little laughing hole, until one Sunday as he was sitting by the ocean (Resting. Per his own orders) idly swirling the tides with his finger as he daydreamed. He saw his hand pinch a wave and up from its foam he drew her in all her divinity.

Cowper.

She was not like the other angels and cherubs. She was not like the creatures of Earth (or any other planet).

Where angels stood stiff and shining--bronzed torsos, wings taut with purpose--Cowper twerked.

Where archangels thundered hosannas, Cowper giggled and moaned- legs spread beneath warm waterfalls.

Where others praised, Cowper pleased.

She was light and chaos and perpetual slick. A celestial brat with cum on her chin even before anyone had ever ejaculated.

God had made her from ocean waves and mischief, dipped her in star light, and whispered secrets into the folds of her lips. And not the ones she whistled with. Unless the wind blew just right.

And God--omniscient though He was--fell.

Head over balls.

He watched Cowper roll in the surf, slippery, her nipples tight with cosmic curiosity, heralding the promise of something divine, and His cock swelled... and dripped.

They had a good thing, He and Cowper.

Long, slow afternoons spent wrestling in fields of silk nebulae.

Nights tangled in moaning galaxies, stroking each other to the tempo of birthing stars.

An intimacy so complete, so utterly dripping, that even the cherubim developed tics from averting their eyes too hard.

They danced. They teased. They tasted.

And Cowper's hunger--for touch, for oral, for penetration--grew with each passing eon.

Her need for cock was bottomless. When he was not in her, splitting her in two, God would turn to see her plunging herself with anything she could find.

She longed for thickness. For stretch.

And God, being God, heard this need even before she spoke it.

And He ached to give her everything.

So, He gave her stars to ride. Planets to grind... Nebulae that pulsed between her thighs like a celestial sybian.

Cowper moaned through the galaxies, squirted into the depths of space, and came in a voice that made stars boil like someone just flushed the commode.

Still, she wanted more. He could see it, and he would give her anything. But what did she need that he had not already given?

Then, one evening, in a silken pocket of space between constellations, she curled up in His lap--sweaty, shimmering, flushed with starlight, nursing on his dripping crown--and whimpered:

"Goddy... make me somethin' I can hold. Somethin' huge. Somethin' that makes my fwofwo sob."

God, already leaking light from His fingertips, stared down at her wrecked little smile.

And in that moment, He knew...

God rose slowly, fairy spit and pre dripping from the tip of his onion shaped crown. ("You know, we really need a name for this stuff" he thought to himself... Hmmmm)

A low, wet anticipation curled through every corner of creation.

And God reached down- and stroked himself

He wrapped his hands around his shaft and balls, hot as the sacred furnace of His own heart (which was the hottest heat there was at that time... the fires of Hell not igniting for eons and eons, yet) fingers glowing with unbearable heat, and he drew it forth.

What emerged from the light pulsed, veined in living flame.

And as it cooled in the palms of His hands, it began to take shape.

Not a scepter.

Not a sword.

Not a staff.

Another cock. The first clone (Don't let anyone tell you it was a sheep-- they had to get the idea from somewhere!)

Thick. Majestic. Writhing with the tension of an unknown purpose.

It was a cock unlike any other-- The Grailcock!

Made not just to fuck, but to share the glory of God

The crown was swollen, plush, dripping. (We really do need a name for this stuff! God thought to himself, smearing it over the cock's purple head)

Veins pulsed across the shaft like lines on a map, glowing softly in divine pink and gold.

God wrapped both his hands around it--just barely.

He whimpered.

He throbbed.

He raised the new cock to his own lips and breathed into it, a string of... of... that stuff trailing from his lips.

He looked down at Cowper.

And Cowper... Well, Cowper was already on her knees, pupils blown wide, drool on her chin, tits pressed between her hands in supplication. (Which is why we still clasp our hands in prayer to this day, as a matter of fact. Remember that next time you're on your knees in church!)

She didn't blink or breathe. She crawled, tongue hanging from her mouth

Her voice was a ragged, gleeful whimper.

"... is that f'me, Goddy? Y'made that f'my fwofwo?"

God nodded.

The Grailcock pulsed.

Cowper screamed and danced.

And without waiting, without asking, she lunged.

Her fingers landed first--curling around the shaft like it was, well... like God's cock.

The Grailcock swelled in her grip. A puls rolled from base to crown, and Cowper's spine hummed like a struck harp.

"'S so warm," she moaned, nuzzling the underside like a kitten trying to suckle. "It's buzzin', Goddy--it's talkin' to me."

And it was.

Not in words, but in a perverse hyperactive morse code as fast as a spinning pulsar

She licked the tip.

Slow.

Flat-tongued.

A full drag from bottom to slit--smearing pre that still had no name across her lips and cheeks like warpaint.

She whimpered.

Then again.

Faster this time. Sloppier. Mouth working, yet still empty.

She kissed the crown, open mouthed, tongue out as if expecting it to kiss her back. (There have been, by the way, several scholarly works published examining whether the grailcock did in fact kiss her back at that moment. Preeminent among them, "When Divinity Moaned" by Sister Cumbeline, later founder of the Sisterhood Of Moist Moaning.) Her cheeks hollowing as spit foamed at the corners of her mouth.

"F-fuck, Goddy--it's s'big," she gasped, gagging slightly as the tip slipped past her lips. "It's big all the way 'round--it ain't got no skinny bits!"

Scholarly aside: While the precise length of the Grailcock remains a topic of spirited debate among (mostly insecure) theologians, most sources place it somewhere around fourteen "Divine Inches." This, however, should not be confused with earthly inches, which lack elasticity, sentience, and the capacity for temporal harmonics. Divine Inches operate on a fluid scale--expanding under worship and often bending local time. Historical comparisons include: a royal scepter, an unusually self-assured traffic cone, and the tail of Jörmungandr, Loki's "World Serpent"--if he were harder and more interested in procreation than stuffing his own maw, which--frankly--feels like a missed opportunity.

God, glowing and leaking and visibly struggling not to blow right then, just groaned.

"Take your time, my little cum fairy," He said, voice thick and radiant. "Or don't. You can fuck that rod for all eternity."

Her lips, flared around the slit, slippery pre rising like a fondue fountain, shinny, bubbling, too hot to touch... but not to swallow. "Goddy, this slick, it's sooo nice and slippery!" She moaned and scooped it to her mouth, "Ohhh! And soooo yummies! Can I have it? I want it fo' eva and eva!"

"That's IT!" Cried God inside his head! "It will be Cowper's fluid! Brilliant!"

The ridge bordering the Grailcock's head shone, radiating a nurturing light as she tried to take it fully into her mouth. ("It's like the light of a sun during an eclipse..." thought God in a surprisingly poetic moment. "That's it! We'll call it the Coronal Ridge!")

Then, in a fury of impatience, Cowper stuck her fingers between her lips and stretched her mouth to get that ridge-- the coronal ridge, to pop in. Andy it did, her eyes telling the tale.

Two inches in.

Three.

Then her throat began to swallow on its own, reflexively.

Her eyes crossed.

Each inch brought another tiny cumming. And there were a lot of inches yet to go...

A delicate fairy squirt drizzled down her thighs and dripped from her toes.

"Cahn ft t'all," she choked, throat working, drool streaming down her chin. "Cahnt--gruapph grak, slurrrp!

God didn't move.

He watched.

Reverent and dripping.

One hand on his chin, the other slowly stroking Himself in sync with her sucks and gags.

The Grailcock pulsed again-- a little cruelly this time.

Cowper squealed and forced it deeper.

Until her lips kissed its hairless base.

Until her throat twitched in helpless, full-body surrender.

Until the cherubim peeking through their fingers all fainted from the blood running to their surprisingly large penises.

Cowper slid back with a shhlorp, coughing, eyes shining with tears and triumph.

"I did it," she gasped. "I d-d-did it--I GAGGED THE COCK OF GOD!"

"Don't stop now," God groaned, His own cock now rigid, twitching and jealous.

And Cowper--smeared, leaking, laughing--straddled the Grailcock like it was a ride, like it was a punishment, like it was her birthright.

"Time f'my fwofwo," she giggled and blushed innocently, looking up into God's radiant face.

And began to lower herself.

At first, it was just teasing.

The head kissed her lips--her other lips--and Cowper gasped.

Her pussy fluttered.

Literally. Her wings spasmed like she'd caught an orgasm in mid-flight.

"Goddy..." she moaned, hovering just above the tip. "'S so biiig. Gonna ruin me. Gonna turn my coochie into a wombhole..."

She spread and dropped an inch.

Then two.

Her pussy surrendered.

And as she fell, her voice rose in a squeal. Her wings snapped open wide.

The Grailcock ground against her quivering walls, ever expanding, dreaming of vast tracts of land. Every fold inside her stretched, tugged, peeled back like curtains around an altar.

"Ohhh! F-fuckfuckfuck--I feel it in my teeth!" she cried, nails digging into her own thighs as her cunt clung and unfurled at the same time.

She bounced once... Just once... A half bounce... A timid shrug.

And that alone made her belly twitch.

Another inch disappeared inside.

Her eyes rolled back until she could see her brain (a hastily scrawled sign read, "Yikes! Back in 5 Minutes!")

And she took another inch.

God, fists planted in the dirt, watched with holy hunger that scorched the grass beneath Him--panting, cock twitching, dripping with Cowper's fluid, basking in the ruin He'd wrought upon her pussy.

"You're doing so well my little cum fairy," He panted. "Such a good little cunnie-stretcher..."

She keened, leaning forward, one hand gripping the base of the cock like a railing on a stairway to heaven.

"I'm--nnnggh--makin' room... for God's fuckin' prophecy pole!"

She bounced again. Full shrug.

Her belly bulged.

The shadow of the grailcock glowed through her like lightning in a stormcloud. A long, thick shadow, pushing upward like it was trying to crown from her navel.

Cherubs screamed in Summerian.

The sun bit its tongue. Hard.

Reality lost its Wi-Fi.

"I can feel it behind my eyes..." she moaned, drool dribbling from both corners of her mouth.

God's impatient voice cracked like thunder, surprising her with its urgency, "You're only halfway down! Now take it!"

Cowper's eyes went wide. Her mouth dropped open. She came again, louder, harder, thighs shaking like harp strings played by divine ruin.

And then--

She slammed down.

All the way.

A wet, final, shhlap.

Champagne popping in reverse.

Her ass met the grailcock's balls. Her pussy- hell, her entire torso met its limit--and then surpassed it, welcomed it, fucking French kissed it.

Cowper's wings flared. Her back arched. Her voice broke entirely.

"HHHNNNNHHH!"

Her scream didn't end.

It harmonized with itself.

Echoed through the constellations, bouncing off moons, ringing in the skulls of saints.

Then she collapsed forward, limp, twitching, cunt and folds and wings still wrapped tight around the shaft... a holy fleshlight sagging and full.

God exhaled and squeezed a pool sized drop of her fluid from his raging head.

Cowper twitched-- once, twice-- then rolled her hips like she was trying to stir the cum left in God's balls.

Her cunt gripped the shaft so tightly it sang. A high, glassy note rang out-- a crystal rim being fingered at a dinner party.

She whimpered.

Then rose.

A single inch.

Maybe two.

And slammed back down.

"NnNNAHHHHHHH--"

Her voice cracked like the first trumpet of Revelation, but she was nowhere near the second coming.

The Grailcock vanished back into her, shame evaporating before it ever materialized.

God's own cock throbbed in sympathy pains, leaking Cowper's eponymous fluid.

"I can feel it!" she shrieked. "I c-can feel my organs rearrangin'"

She lifted again.

Slower now. Trembling.

The shaft dragged against every ridge inside her--slippery with tears, slick with worship.

She gasped.

She bit her lip.

And through her agony she grinned, a twisted little smile that told God she was still there.

"Time for thrustsies." her voice... becoming clearer...

She dropped.

SLAP.

God flinched at the sound... the reverb.

Stars twinkled. (Yes, that is why stars twinkle!)

The planets paused in their orbits. In their rotations.

"Y-you're going to crack the firmament," God groaned, hand now wrapped tight around His own holy girth, milking it, trying to keep up.

Cowper didn't answer.

She was riding.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Her thighs clapped on each descent. Her wings stuttered. Her ass quivered with the tremble of incoming sanctification.

The Grailcock pulsed.

She responded by bouncing faster--harder--wet, rhythmic slaps echoing across heaven's ruined bed sheets.

"I'm... Gonna... Milk... The Galaxy... " she spoke, eyes clear and determined, capturing God's gaze from beneath her brow, a smile spreading across her gasping mouth.

Angels wept, unsure of their safety.

One began lactating. And others knelt to drink.

The sky warped.

Reality tilted on its axis as Cowper bounced like a possessed slut puppet--one hand gripping her own hair, the other milking her tits.

"Give me cum," she sobbed. "Give me GOD cum--I want my ears filled--I wanna drown--I wanna hear angels scream my name while my cunt gets baptized in spume!"

God, panting, glowing, holy pre bubbling from the slit of His cock like a sacred hot spring, gasped:

"You're close."

"I'm so close..." gasping, eyes wide. "I see everything! I see my own ghost! I see my mail carrier jerking off on a cloud!"

The sky cracked.

A star wen nova.

And Cowper--

Cowper dropped again and froze.

Her whole body locked.

Her cunt clenched.

Ass flexed.

Wings flared.

She inhaled once-- and screamed like a camel being pulled through the eye of a needle.

Her orgasm hit.

Detonated.

She shook--legs locked, wings twitching, mouth gaping in a slow, silent prayer. Her cunt fluttered, spasming around the divine shaft, swallowing.

But God wasn't done.

He rose beneath her, slow and terrifying, a mountain made of magma and desiret. His cock--His cock--still glistened, still dribbled in waterfalls, still throbbed with sacred purpose. It had watched the Grailcock fuck Cowper. It had wept longingly. And now...

It was its turn.

Cowper whimpered, still impaled, still full, as God's massive hands slid around her trembling hips.

"Goddy... y'already gave me the Grail..." she panted, drool running down her neck. "'S too much. I'm f-full. I'm--"

"You were made for more," He growled, voice thick with thunder and cum.

He pressed forward. The tip of His cock kissed her asshole, still twitching from her earlier flood. It puckered. Spasmed.

Welcomed.

She sobbed.

And then He thrust.

Cowper howled--a ragged scream torn from her throat as both divine cocks filled her. Her holes stretched, sobbed, sang. Her eyes rolled back. Her tongue flopped loose. Her body shuddered like a fault line.

The Grailcock swelled again, realizing it wasn't alone and twitced inside her.

And God bottomed out--balls to taint, bellowing with sacred authority.

"Ohhh gods f-fuck--mmmn--ohhh ohhHHHh it's--"

Her belly bulged obscenely.

She wasn't just split.

She was hallowed.

DP'd by deity and relic, stuffed to the core with purpose and holy righteousness.

He moved first. Slow. Brutal. Feeling her asshole grip his meat.

The Grailcock followed.

And together, they fucked her through Heaven.

Slap. Squish. Shlorp.

They pistoned in perfect rhythm, one pulled while the other plunged. Cowper was just the vessel now--screaming, shaking, dripping, praising.

Her clit swelled like a grape ripe for juicing.

Her nipples stretched on their own, pulling on themselves, like kissing your own cheek.

And inside her, the two cocks reunited in a kiss behind her womb. Still they fucked. Still they fed her. Still they stretched her to the edge of undeath. Petite mort. Mega mort.

And when the pressure mounted--when her orgasm built like a freight train of fireworks--she shrieked:

"DO IT! FILL ME! I WANNA DROWN IN THE CUM OF CREATION!"

They obeyed.

Two twin eruptions surged inside her--a flood from both front and behind, each jetting with such force, sacred and thick. Her belly swelled instantly, a threat to the big bang itself, distending with cum, glowing faintly as her entire inner systems were overwritten by sacred seed.

Semen squirted from her throat. Her nose.

Her eyes.

From her goddamn pores. She was the fountain. The Cum Fountain fed by the springs of all creation...

And then--

The flood began.

They fucked for 69 days and 69 sticky, gasping, thigh-clapping nights.

No time passed.

Or all of it did.

The stars wobbled and spun without physics.

Moons trembled, dissolved and formed rings about planets.

The Earth drowned in sacred semen and sweat and sanctified spillage.

Every night was another position, another prophecy.

On day 4, they found the "Celestial Corkscrew." It caused a tsunami in the Sargasso Sea.

Day 9 saw "The Inverted Anointment," which reversed gravity in the 4th dimension.

Day 17 triggered the orgasm so long it had to be spelled with five u's: cuuuuummmmmm. It lasted 48 hours and formed into a fluid moon of its own before cascading from the heavens to flood the earth.

By Day 34, all humanity was sleeping in puddles of divine spunk.

Milkmaids washed their hair with it.

Priests used it as lube as they jerked in confessionals.

And everyone fucked in it.

By Day 66, the earth was flooded. And no one noticed. Random boats floated carelessly as everyone... everything on board fucked furiously. And there was none of this 2 by 2 crap... No one had time to count.

And on Day 69--

At the final climax--

God came so hard, His soul spouted from his own cock like a holy flame.

Cowper swallowed it all.

She had never glowed brighter.

And in the pulsing, trembling, womb-flooded aftermath, as they lay together--a goddess and her maker, gasping in a puddle of their own milked-out, muscle-quivering legacy--

The sky wept.

A final ripple shimmered above them.

And the Cumbow appeared.

Not red, not blue.

It gleamed in hues of cocktip purple, clitoris rose, pee-gold, and pearlescent white.

It curved over the ruined landscape like an arching cock, each color dripping gently, glowing in post-fuck radiance.

A covenant.

A warning.

A promise.

God held Cowper in His arms as she straddled his still divinely erect penis. His fingers combed her cum slick hair. His face buried in her cum-sticky neck--and whispered:

"Never again. Not like this. Look at this mess..."

She nodded, too full to speak. Cum dribbled from both corners of her mouth.

And the Grailcock--still throbbing, still drooling, still perfect--was wrapped in sacred linen, kissed goodbye, and cast downward.

Into a world not yet ready.

Into the trembling vessel of a bumbling boy.

Cum-crusted relics lie nearby on the drying sand as the sea of semen recedes.

A once-sacred hanky. An ivory butt plug. A petrified cherubim penis, half-swaddled in an In-N-Out wrapper.

The Book of Cowper floats open, face-down in a puddle of celestial ejaculate.

"This," says our tweed-clad narrator plainly, already mid-stride as she steps delicately around a steaming puddle of jizz, "is widely considered the messiest moment in theological history.

Unless you count the Raw Butter Orgies of the Saint Mona Revivalists--but those were mostly regional."

She squints at the wreckage around her.

"What we've just witnessed--two divine cocks, one fairy, and a volume of semen roughly equal to the Indian Ocean--isn't just a Gods Teach Sex video.

It's a story about consequences."

She stoops to pick up the Book of Cowper. It drips a long strand of cum into the palm of her hand and down her tweed skirt. She ignores it, and brings her fingers thoughtfully to her chin as she reads aloud from the open page:

He who bears the Lance shall leak before he knows.

He shall blush. Trip. Moan in his sleep.

The Vessel of the Grail must be daft, dripping, and late to blossom.

When the day comes, his shame shall rise before he does.

And his cock shall shine like a beacon to sluts and saints alike.

She nods. No comment. Just a faint scribble in the margins.

Then she turns slightly, as if someone has spoken just behind her. She nods again.

"There are still debates about what exactly Cowper was. Was she a fairy? A muse? A divine brat with a cum addiction?

Or was she, perhaps, a metaphor for yonic pleasure finally being allowed a narrative arc--with agency, chaos, and a double-ended dildo all her own?"

Blinking. No one answers.

"And yet, the text is clear: when the Grailcock inspired such divine passions as to flood all of creation, it was time for a holy refractory period.

And the safest place to store it away... wasn't in a box or a vault."

A beat. She reads.

A very, very confused boy.

Far away, the sky trembles faintly.

Now, in a village better known for root vegetables than relics, Sir Cedric of Thistlecock stirs in his narrow bed.

His cock--divine, unknowing, and already hugely inconvenient--twitches in the tangle of his sheets.

He moans softly in his sleep.

The stain beneath him blooms like prophecy through wet cotton.

A single fat droplet wells at the tip and rolls upward, against gravity, as if answering a call from the heavens.

And thus, our tale continues.

She tucks the book under one arm and walks directly into the steam, vanishing before her boots even get damp.

Cowper was coming.

And the Vessel was leaking.

Thus endeth the prolapse... log. Prolog.

Somewhere, a cock twitches.

A prophecy tightens.

A fairy licks her lips in her sleep.

To find out what happens next--whether Sir Cedric survives his first erection with dignity (spoiler: he doesn't),

or if Cowper manages to weaponize the act of riding--subscribe, follow along,

or simply moan loud enough and we'll appear in your feed.

Until then:

May your thighs stay parted,

Your faith stay slippery,

And your holy fluids never run dry.

Supplemental Footage: Professor Philomena, Unedited

[CAMERA ERROR: RECORDING DEVICE A-4 -- UNAUTHORIZED FEED - "PRIVATE OFFICE 2B"]

Recording begins.

The room is quiet except for the hum of old track lighting and the soft creak of the professor's chair.

She's seated. Still in full costume. Apparently, up until recently, rehearsing her script for the next segment...

Skirt hiked up like she forgot to put it back down.

Blouse gaping open over flushed skin.

Pantyhose rucked around her knees, torn wide in the crotch, dark with slick.

One loafer on. The other... somewhere.

She's mid-sentence already. She's always mid-sentence.

"... and according to the Codex Drippicus, the curvature of the divine shaft was said to align with the arc of the firmament itself--slightly veined, eternally lubed..."

Her voice catches.

Her fingers don't stop.

Three knuckles deep, pumping. Twisting. Like she's mining for truth.

"They never--nnngh--they never accounted for the harmonic swelling under direct worship. Every recorded measurement is flawed--oh fuck--because they used earthly inches."

She rocks forward, curls inward, bites her lip until she moans.

"Earthly inches... pathetic. Rigid. Finite. Divine Inches swell. They hear your need and they respond."

One hand fists the arm of the chair. The other is buried between her thighs, wet and working like it's translating a dead language directly from her cunt.

"Said to reach fourteen Divine Inches... but it's not--it's not about length, it's presence--it's pressure gradients, sacred elasticity--fuck--yesyesyes..."

Her whole body flexes.

Her heel taps in rhythm. Her glasses fog.

"They said... t-they said it could split a sinner from her sin--oh gods I want it to split me--split me like a footnote at the bottom of a cum-stained page--yes--fuck me open like a revision draft!"

She's drooling now, hand flying over her clit like she's redacting the whole damn Bible.

"Th-there's... mmmnnn... there's a theory--an unverified passage--s-some say the Grailcock can adjust to the ache of the vessel. It feels the desire. It knows. It knows."

She bucks.

One leg kicks out. The chair squeaks violently.

"That's what I--fuck, that's what I've been--studying--I've been begging for it--annotating my own pussy with holy slick--please--just gimme the tip--j-just the tip of history--"

Her eyes roll back.

She gasps.

Still coherent. Barely.

"I w-wanna feel the ridge... the coronal ridge, described in the Acts of St. Clitaura as 'a pulsing halo crowning the weapon of grace'--"

Her orgasm crashes in--abrupt and brutal. Her body seizes like a taut conclusion.

She cries out in full voice, unladylike, unacademic, divine.

"F-F-FUCK ME WITH THE GRAIL OF GOD--I--I'LL FOOTNOTE EVERY STROKE!"

She squirts.

It's audible. Messy. Undeniable.

The chair is soaked. Her hand's still moving. Her hips stutter like a dial-up modem trying to connect to the divine.

She sobs through the aftershocks, panting into the sleeve of her cardigan.

"I'm ready," she whispers, trembling. "Peer-reviewed. Extra copies printed. Cited in MLA, APA, and... mmmh... BBC."

A pause.

She blinks. Glances directly at the camera lens.

Then grins.

Just slightly.

Like she's known we were watching this whole time.

"End of supplemental footage. Delete if you're afraid."

The video flickers.

Then ends.

???? Supplemental Footage II: "Divine Inches" (Redacted Transcript)

[CAMERA ERROR: Recording Device A-4 activated. Unknown timestamp.]

At first, there's only sound.

Wet. Rhythmic. Desperate.

Then light flickers. A lens adjusts. The frame stabilizes.

There she is--Professor Philomena.

Still in costume.

Still credible.

Except her cardigan is off. Her blouse hangs half-open, her bra tugged under her tits like it was in the way and dared resist.

Her skirt is rucked up around her waist in careful, scholarly folds.

Pantyhose shredded.

One shoe dangling from her toe. The other nowhere to be seen.

Her thighs glisten.

Her face is flushed.

And her hand--her poor, overworked, reverent hand--is buried in her soaked cunt like it's searching for the lost ark.

She's muttering. Moaning. Half-speaking, half-lecturing.

"Fourteen... Divine... Inches..."

She says it like it's the name of a god. A threat. A hope.

She moans again, louder this time, grinding down on her fingers like she's trying to stretch herself in preparation.

"Not earthly. No--earthly inches are lies. They stop. They fit on a measuring tape. Divine Inches... expand. They react to hunger. To worship. They feel you stretch and stretch with you."

She rocks harder, cunt clenching, thighs twitching. Her free hand clutches the arm of the chair like she's afraid she'll float away.

"I read the dimensions myself. I--I translated them--converted sacred cubits to known metrics, and the answer was: no. Just no. No known hole can--can accommodate the shaft described in the Third Book of Drizzle--"

She gasps. Her fingers curl. She bucks into her palm.

"They said it glowed. That the coronal ridge pulsed like a beating sun. That the veins... the veins had names. Names that hummed when you spoke them."

Her hand leaves the chair and moves to her tit--squeezing hard, thumb digging into the edge of her nipple, then slapping it once, hard, like punishment for not feeling enough.

"I need it," she growls. "Need the weight. The mass. I want to feel my hips crack like a communion wafer. I want to waddle for weeks--to limp through lectures--knowing that every student can smell my ruin."

She moans, louder now. Her fingers soaked. Her cunt sloppy.

Her other hand now joins the first, spreading herself open--pushing her lips back, as if to make room.

"Gimme depth. Gimme stretch. Gimme the curve that loops behind my ribs and knocks the air from my fucking lungs."

She's grinding now. Chair squeaking. Slick splashing.

A thick strand of fluid drips off the seat. Her blouse is sticking to her. Her glasses fog.

"I'll name each inch. Sir Girthalot. Thickolas the Blessed. Saint Prongulus of Wombfuckshire. I'll catalog every vein--I'll write a book with my clitoris."

Her orgasm is building--relentless, inevitable, a tidal swell.

"Oh fuckfuckfuck--gimme the shaft that tilts planets--the one that splits dimensions--the one they buried in the boy because the gods couldn't handle it!"

Her voice breaks.

"I WANT ALL OF IT. FROM CROWN TO ROOT!"

And then it hits.

Her entire body arches.

Her mouth drops open, silent for one, two, three seconds.

Then:

"F-F-FUHHHHHHHHHHHCCCCK!"

She screams like a thesis being torn in half.

A gush. A flood.

A textbook example of orgasmic exegesis.

She quivers. Shakes. Her body loses order.

And still her fingers twitch--milking the last drops, chasing the echoes of her climax.

Finally, she slumps.

Blouse plastered to her belly. Skirt damp and ruined.

Panting.

She looks at the camera. Dazed.

Then blinks.

She grins.

The feed ends.