The Burn Outbreak

DISCLAIMER

STRICTLY ADULT CONTENT: 18 AND OVER ONLY.

All characters in sexual scenes are consenting-age adults in fiction.

THIS STORY IS FICTIONAL FANTASY.

I DO NOT condone, endorse, or support rape, non-consensual acts, or any real harm in reality.

This is my first incursion into the Erotic Horror genre. My usual work focuses on Reluctance/NonConsent. This story blends both: the psychological and physical compulsion of erotic horror with the power dynamics and coerced desire typical of noncon/reluctance.

THIS STORY INCLUDES SENSITIVE THEMES: forced sex, unwanted pregnancy, forced orgasms, humiliation, infection, and other disturbing scenarios.

If CNC, rape fantasies, coercion, non-con, or dark psychological content disturb, trigger, or offend you

-- STOP READING NOW --

No apologies for the plot. Discretion is advised.

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Halloween night, just outside San Diego. The air smelled like salt and cheap fog machines. The city was wide awake, and now that the kids had gone to bed after all that candy, it was time for the adults to party.

Marcus adjusted the plastic horns on his devil costume for the third time, the dark red latex pants already riding up in all the wrong places. He was thirty eight, senior researcher at the black site lab tucked into the cliffs north of La Jolla.

He was a neurotoxins and CRISPR edits expert. He'd recently been working on some dark alterations of the human frontal lobe, the kind of shit that never made the news. Tonight he was just trying to get through one goddamn party without thinking about work.

Lila was next to him in the passenger seat of his black BMW, her witch costume barely covering her ass. She wore a short black mini skirt, fishnets, and a little pointed hat tipped sideways. She was just twenty nine. She'd been showing plenty of cleavage since they left the party in Pacific Beach, laughing at how ridiculous he looked with the plastic pitchfork in the back seat.

Then the burn sensation suddenly started.

It hit low, deep in his cock, like someone had poured battery acid into the shaft. Marcus sucked air through his teeth.

"Fuck!" he said, eyes wide in surprise.

Lila's head snapped over. "What? You okay?"

He gripped the wheel harder. The burn climbed, sharp and wet, spreading into his balls. His dick twitched hard against the tight latex, already twitching for no reason at all.

He knew this wasn't anything good. Were these the first symptoms? He'd written the damn briefing memo two days ago when the first lab accident happened. A containment breach with Agent 7 Rho. It had laid out exactly what to expect: frontal lobe disinhibition, genital hyperalgesia, rapid onset, peaking in about thirty minutes.

It can't be me, he thought. I wasn't even exposed.

"We need a hospital!" he urged. "Right now!" His right hand shot down and grabbed his cock through the tight latex, squeezing hard in pure desperation.

Lila's hand landed on his thigh. "Marcus, talk to me. What's happening?" She didn't know how to react.

He slammed the accelerator. The BMW jumped forward. The pain pulsed with every heartbeat like his cock was trying to punch its way out of his body. Pre cum already soaked the front of the costume. His hand fought the urge to yank the zipper down and just start stroking.

"It hurts," he said, voice cracking as he glanced at his crotch. "Feels like fucking fire! There's only one way to stop it... Shit, Lila, I need... I need you to..." he still wasn't sure how to ask her.

She didn't ask more questions. She just smiled, like he was playing some elaborate joke to get a blowjob. And she was more than happy to play along.

She just unbuckled, twisted across the center console, and yanked the waistband of the latex pants down. His cock sprang free, thick and dark red, the head shiny with fluid.

Then her mouth was on him. Wet. Hot. Desperate. She loved his cock and she didn't need to be asked twice to suck him.

She took him deep. Marcus's hips jerked. His sigh mixed with the car's insistent seatbelt alarm. The burn eased the second her tongue dragged along his underside. Relief hit hard.

But his mind stayed sharp. He could still hear the radio, the seatbelt alarm. He could still see the exit signs. He could still feel every wet slide of her lips.

"Harder!" he choked. "Please, harder," he softened. He had never before been that commanding with Lila.

"Mmmphhh...!" Lila moaned around him. She secretly loved him being a bit more dominant while having sex.

Spit ran down his shaft in filthy strings. She worked him with both hands, twisting, stroking, sucking like her life depended on it. Every wet slide made the pain back off. Every time she pulled away the fire roared back.

They hit the hospital parking structure almost at midnight. Marcus stumbled out of the car, cock still glistening, and went running inside.

Inside the ER it was pure chaos. Halloween injuries everywhere, drunks, one guy with a broken femur from a car accident. Nobody looked twice at the devil with his cock out and the half dressed witch until Marcus started shouting that he needed a neurologist, that he'd been exposed to a restricted agent, that the pain was unbearable.

They looked at him like he was high. Perhaps on a Viagra overdose. They really didn't care and were working on some more severe cases.

As he insisted on standing in the middle of the hall, a nurse tried to push him toward a chair. Marcus's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist before he could stop himself. The contact made the burn spike so hard he almost came in his pants.

"Don't touch me, bitch!" he snarled. Then as he saw Lila's face he regained his mind. He softened, broken: "Please just... get me someone who knows about CRISPR protocols."

She turned around to the front desk and talked to a white dressed man that seemed to be a medic. Marcus overheard them talking about a Viagra, ecstasy overdose, nodding their heads in disapproval. The white coat man exchanged glances with some security guards and nurses and fumbled with something he couldn't see.

In no time two guards and a male nurse held him and injected him with some sedative while asking him to calm down.

It wasn't the standard protocol for handling problematic violent people, but it was the best solution they found given how packed the unit was. Marcus knew it and struggled, shouting that they didn't understand.

The drug didn't have much effect at all besides getting him a bit dizzy. The burn was still there, getting higher by the minute.

Marcus got up and took Lila's hand.

"We have to run away and get to La Jolla... Please take me there," he whispered, fighting the poison running through his blood.

She took him by the arm and when nobody was watching they got to the parking lot. He was desperate. They were already near his car when he couldn't help it anymore. He stopped and started frantically masturbating in the middle of the parking lot.

That was when the cop appeared. He was young, in his late twenties, flashlight sweeping the lot.

"Is everything okay over there?" he asked without giving credit to his eyes.

Lila turned. The burn hit her between the legs like a cattle prod. It was sudden. Brutal. Yet her mind stayed clear.

"This is wrong, something is happening to me. I can't help it!" She mumbled. Her body was already moving on its own.

She walked straight up to the officer. He froze in total awe as that gorgeous sexy lady put her hands on his belt, got his zipper down, and swallowed him whole.

The officer babbled, "What the fuck... Oh fuck!!"

Lila sucked harder, messy, loud. Then she yanked his pants lower, shoved him on the floor, and climbed him. Her skirt rapidly flipped up, her thong torn aside. She sank down onto his cock in one incredibly wet, desperate slide.

She rode him hard, staring at his astonished face. She was fast, deep, and almost violent. She moaned like never before. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed under the parking lights. He also started to moan. He had never even dreamed about being sexually assaulted by a gorgeous high class brunette in need.

Inside her mind Lila was completely aware that it was wrong. Something really odd was happening. Staring at Marcus stroking himself for the second time with a pool of cum on the pavement in front of him, she came hard, loud, intense. She did it before the officer. It felt sharp, mean. Her body was clenching around him so hard he couldn't hold it anymore and spilled himself inside her. Hot. Thick. She sighed as she felt his warm load inside her.

She climbed off, legs shaking, cum already leaking down her thigh, and went to Marcus covering her face in utter shame. She mumbled something like "I'm sorry!! I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry Marc... I don't know what happened to me." Her hands were shaking.

Marcus, in the passenger's seat of the car, was still dizzy. He had masturbated twice in the lapse of ten minutes, spilling all his cum over the next car's door. He was also mumbling something like "Hurry up. If I'm right, we have less than twelve minutes before my next attack. We have to get to La Jolla."

The officer, Jake Torres, twenty seven, two years on the force, lay there with his pants around his ankles, staring at the sky, still trying to grasp what he had just been through with that crazy witch. He felt exhausted, spent. That lady had suddenly sucked all his stamina.

He managed to pull himself together. Then he decided to radio it in as a disturbance, where the subjects fled. He thanked his uniform bodycam. It would be undeniable evidence of how he was the one abused.

He walked three blocks to get back into his car before the first wave hit him.

Same as it happened with Marcus, it started as a low, mean heat behind his balls. Jake stopped his walk. The heat climbed fast. It got hotter, sharper, like someone had taken a lighter to the underside of his cock. His dick twitched hard against the uniform pants.

"Carajo!..." he muttered in his Latin American accent. "What the fuck is this shit?"

He stopped behind a closed surf shop. The second the engine went quiet the burn spiked. A deep, pulsing ache that made his hips jerk. Unbearable.

Jake's hand went to his zipper before he even thought about it. He yanked his dick out. He was hard again, head shiny, thick string of pre cum hanging off the tip. He instinctively stroked once, slowly, tight.

Relief hit like a drug. The fire dialed down. He stroked faster. His mind stayed crystal clear the whole time, but nothing made sense.

"Why does this hurt so bad? Why does touching it help? I just got fucked dry by some crazy bitch in a witch costume and now my dick feels like it's on fire again unless I'm jacking it."

Jake got into his car. The burn continued climbing. He didn't understand any of it. He only knew it was getting worse by the second. He desperately needed some relief. His mind was going blunt as the heat increased. Something primal, animal, raw was building inside him.

He saw her on the sidewalk near a closed taco shop. Twenty two, maybe twenty three. Short denim skirt showing her slender legs and part of her ass, pink crop top holding her small but perky tits, headphones in. She was walking like she was just trying to get home, absorbed by the music, unaware of her surroundings.

Jake's body decided before his brain finished the thought. He swung the car into the alley, got out, and stepped into her path.

"Hey officer? Is everything okay?" she said with a naive surprised smile. She would have never expected what happened next.

He grabbed her by the upper arms and shoved her into the alley. Her phone noisily hit the ground. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred ten pounds, half his size.

"What the fuck!! Let go of me!" she shouted.

Jake's mind registered every word. He could sense her fear in her face. He could still think, yet he just couldn't stop. The more scared she was, the higher his arousal got. He was a cop. He was expected to protect her. What the hell was wrong with him?

He spun her around, pinned her face first to the wall, yanked her skirt up. He shredded her pink panties with fury. Then he shoved his cock hard inside her dry pussy. A loud howl escaped his throat as he felt the relief in his burning cock. He stayed buried deep for a while until he could pull out and forcefully thrust in again.

She made a muffled, broken protesting shriek behind his muffling hand. It burned her insides. He was splitting her in half. It was raw, dry, and stabbing. Jake fucked her the same way the fire was eating him alive. He went in and out of her unprepared pussy with deep, punishing strokes.

Every time he hit the bottom of her tight pussy, he felt her warmth and her tightness making the pain back off. Every time she cried his cock twitched wanting more. His pleasure was like nothing he felt before. It was like a drug. He needed to hear her scream, beg, whimper.

He came hard. Groaning. Panting. His thick jets flooded her. After a few long seconds emptying inside her the fire went quiet.

He pulled out. A mix of cum with a few strains of her blood leaked down her thigh. She slumped on her knees, sobbing, shocked, destroyed. Her hand went directly to her groin, staring in awe at the thick globes of cum leaking from her slit.

Jake stared at her, absolutely aware of what he'd done. He knew it was heinous, horrible, yet his cock was still engorged and shiny.

He could feel the next wave was already slowly climbing. He still had no idea what was happening to him, but his mind wasn't able to stop it. He already knew he'd do it again and again.

His radio crackled while he was wiping his hands and getting away fast from the crime scene.

"Torres, you copy? You've been dark for twenty minutes. Talk to me." Her voice sounded on his personal intercom.

Malika Ustinova. His partner. His friend. Her Ukrainian accent was still soft around the edges. They'd come up together. She always called him brother. He'd stood next to her at the clinic last month when the fertility doctor explained to her how the hormone shots treatment she was starting would increase her ovulation and her chance to conceive the child she wanted.

Jake's cock twitched hard at the sound of her voice. He'd always loved her in secret. Yet the second wave was already climbing. No! Not her please! I have to get her away from me!

He keyed the mic. "Stay away, Mali. I'm serious. Don't come looking."

Static. Then her voice, closer. "I'm two blocks out. Something's wrong. I can hear it in your voice, in your breathing."

"Malika. Don't get any closer!" he shouted.

Too late. Headlights swept the alley. Her patrol car rolled up. She got out already and walked towards him.

Then she saw the look on his face, the stains on his uniform and shoes. She recklessly stopped three feet from him. Malika was always a risk taker.

"Jake... what the hell happened to you?" she asked.

He backed up until his ass hit the fender. His dick was fully hard again, throbbing, straining the front of his pants. The burn was a constant thump now. He clenched his fist trying to fight the urge. He wanted to disappear. He wanted her to go away.

"I'm cursed, Malika," he said, voice raw. "Something's wrong with me. It hurts so bad. I'm doing unspeakable things... I... I've just..." he stuttered, unable to name the terrible scenario behind him.

His face contorted again. He was fighting hard to control his impulses. His eyes were red, almost crying. He loved Malika. He couldn't hurt her, yet he knew he would.

"You have to leave! Right now!" he shouted. "For God's sake go away!!"

Malika stepped closer instead.

"I'm not leaving you like this. Do you need me to call for an emergency?" she insisted.

"Please." He held up both hands, tears in his eyes. "I'm begging you. Turn around and walk away. I won't be able to stop it. Any moment..."

Malika kept coming. She reached for his shoulder the way she always did when he had a panic attack. Her face was sweet and comforting for him. That was the special power she had with him.

The second her fingers touched him the last of his control snapped. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." he kept saying, his eyes wide open glued to her.

Jake grabbed her by the waist, spun her, and bent her face down over the warm hood of his cruiser. Her hands slapped the metal. He pinned her with his full weight and yanked her duty belt open to the floor.

"Jake!! Stop!! What are you...?" she reacted in astonishment.

"I told you to get away!!" he groaned against the back of her neck. "I don't fucking know what's wrong with me. It hurts... it hurts so goddamn bad!!"

He roughly shoved her pants and underwear down in no time. She tried to stop him but he was faster and stronger. He then lined up and sank his cock hard in her unprepared pussy. It wasn't Malika anymore. Just a warm hole to help him calm his excruciating burn.

Malika's cry was sharp, shocked. She thrashed under his weight, to no avail. Her fists hit him on his back, but he didn't stop. He had always won her in every fight in the academy. This time was no different. This time Malika had his cock deep buried inside her.

He fucked her raw. It was like the fire was eating him alive. Deep, punishing strokes that made the whole car rock. The wet sounds of skin on skin filled the alley mixed with her broken noises and his ragged breathing.

"Ughhh.... Stop it Jake!! We can get some help!!" she begged while panting under his relentless strokes. Her cunt was on fire, unwillingly receiving thrust after thrust of the beast beneath Jake.

His hand firmly gripped her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He could feel her pussy walls fluttering around him. Knowing she was fertile only made the need worse. He wanted to fill her. He needed to breed her no matter what.

"I'm sorry," he choked against her hair. "I'm so fucking sorry. I don't understand. I can't control myself." His last remains of humanity surfaced for a moment.

He came hard for the third time. His balls ached, almost empty. He could feel himself relieving his burn as each powerful jet of cum went deep inside her cunt. It felt like bliss as her battered walls clenched around him. His thick pulses of cum flooded her, over and over. The orgasm ripped through him so violently his vision went white. For a few long seconds the fire went completely quiet.

Jake stayed buried inside her, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, both of them shaking.

Then the quiet started to fade again.

He pulled out slowly. Cum leaked down the inside of her thigh in a heavy white line, dripping onto the hood. Malika stayed bent over the car, pants around her knees, panting hard, shocked, not knowing what to do.

Jake stepped back, cock still half hard and shiny. It was a matter of time before the next urge arose. He still had no idea what was wrong with him. Yet he knew it was only a matter of time before central dispatch would send some other units to check what happened with Malika and what she radioed. Completely ashamed he ran through the alley and got lost in the dark of the night, leaving Malika panting and sobbing over his cruiser.

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Six hours after Jake ran into the dark, the virus had already torn through the coastal strip. One in four people were burning.

Fox News cut to a live shot from Pacific Beach early in the morning.

"This is 'Pat in the Morning.' We start today's news going right away to an on site breaking news. Please come in, Laura!"

The reporter was young, mid twenties, blonde, slim and petite, microphone trembling in both hands. Her light blue blazer was buttoned all the way up like armor.

She was in a small parking lot. Behind her the streetlights flickered over empty cars with doors still open. Some shop windows were already shattered. She kept glancing over her shoulder every few seconds.

"We're broadcasting live in the area where a lot of weird cases of sexual violence were reported earlier tonight. Authorities are still calling it contained, but from what we're seeing on the ground, this thing is not contained."

She took a few careful steps forward, camera following. Her voice stayed professional but the fear leaked through every word. Her breathing was agitated and the rapid movement of her eyes said she was really uneasy.

"There's clothing everywhere. Look! There's plenty of women's underwear, a torn shirt, a purse dumped out in the middle of the street." She crouched and picked a stained black thong with a stick. Her face was a mix of disgust and fear.

She walked two steps and crouched again, pointing the microphone at a dark stain on the asphalt. The cameraman did a zoom in until the pool of thick white fluid was visible. "I don't know what that is. I don't want to know what that is."

A distant scream cut through the dawn. Then another. Somewhere farther down the block a single gunshot cracked, followed by more shouting and screaming.

The reporter flinched hard. Her shoulders hunched. She stood up too fast and almost dropped the mic.

"People are... people are attacking each other. We're hearing reports of sexual assaults in the open. Multiple victims. It's spreading fast." She said while walking at a quick pace.

"We don't know what this is. Is it a kind of riot? No terrorist group claimed responsibility for it.... Please, if you're watching this, stay inside. Do not come down here."

She kept walking fast, heels clicking too loud on the empty street. Her free hand stayed clenched against her chest. Every time a car alarm went off or a bottle rolled somewhere in the dark she spun toward the sound, eyes wide.

"I can hear them. I can hear people screaming. There's another shot! Oh God, that was damned close. I don't know why I agreed to this!"

She stopped under a broken streetlight, breathing fast. The camera caught the way her whole body had gone tight, knees subtly trembling. She was ready to run.

"I shouldn't be out here. None of us should be out here. Something is very, very wrong and they are not telling us the truth..."

"Watch out!! Behind you, Laura!!" the cameraman shouted at her.

She couldn't turn fast enough.

A disheveled figure slammed into her from the side. A man in his thirties. He was only wearing his boxers. His strong body was all sweat. His eyes showed his desperation, staring at Laura with an evil grin. He grabbed the microphone and threw it away. He hauled Laura up against a parked car, ripped her skirt up, and forced her legs apart.

The camera jerked hard. The cameraman's voice came through, panicked and close:

"Hey! Get off her! Get the fuck off her! Somebody help!" he shouted.

The lens hit the asphalt. For three long seconds the picture spun, showing the attacker's sneakers and the reporter's bare thighs. There was a fight as Laura's hands tried vainly to stop him.

Then the moment when he ripped Laura's panties from her was captured in full HD and broadcast to everyone who was watching completely uncensored. The camera flipped on its side and all that could be seen were the man's calves as he clearly pushed frantically, raping Laura, her desperate cries and sobbing in the background sound.

Two women appeared from nowhere. They seemed to be mother and daughter. Wearing just the rest of fancy party dresses shredded and torn apart, they were both topless and barefoot. In no time they were over the cameraman, two feet behind Laura caught also in frame. Sounds were barely taken by the camera, but the image showed how they overpowered him. One jerked his pants down around his knees and made him stumble and fall to the floor, face up, begging them to stop. One of the women started furiously straddling his face, grinding down while he choked and thrashed under her soaked pussy. His hands pushed at her hips. She didn't stop.

The younger one grabbed his cock and sucked it until he got fully hard. Then she pushed the remains of her dress aside, sank down onto him, and rode him hard, moaning and fucking him with desperate, frantic thrusts.

Video froze. Then the feed was cut to black.

Station ID appeared on the screen. Then they went back to the studio.

Pat, the anchor, in her late thirties, dark hair, normally used to appear ice cold.

She was already crying. Mascara ran in thin black lines down her cheeks. She stared at the monitor in awe.

"Oh not!! Not Laura!!" She first said with anguish on her face before she noted the red light telling her she was live again.

"What you just saw..." she started saying without script, trying to calm herself down and remain professional. "We don't know what that was..." she said after checking the blank teleprompters.

"Please! Stay in your houses! Lock your doors! Do not go outside for any reason! We are getting reports from all over San Diego County of the same unknown events. Authorities aren't giving any answers..." she improvised with the information she heard.

A studio door burst open behind the lights that blinded her vision.

Next thing she saw was a man in a torn security uniform coming from behind the cameras and lights. Everybody ran in panic. The infected man dashed to Pat's desk and jumped over it.

The anchor shrieked loud and tried to dodge him. But he was on her before she cleared the chair, ripping her red dress from the cleavage down. Pat instinctively shrieked loud again while she closed her arms trying to cover her nudity in shame.

She couldn't believe what had just happened as she saw everybody had left the studio fleeing out screaming. There was no one to protect her. She cried for help but nobody came.

He was behind her now. Tall, strong, with bulging eyes, he bent her face down over the news desk. Pat struggled and squirmed but she was no match for his muscular body. He desperately yanked her panties to her knees in one motion, and drove his already exposed cock fully into her cunt in one motion.

The camera stayed live. Pat's face was facing it, completely aware of the red light still on. Her eyes showed her dread while her mouth gasped for air as she felt him big and merciless pumping deep inside her cunt. He was ramming in hard and deep, her cunt painfully opening to his powerful strokes.

Coast to coast, millions watched the crying anchor's face pressed against the polished wood while the man fucked her hard and steady, one hand locked in her hair, the other braced on the desk. Her cries mixed with the wet sound of skin and the distant shouts and comments of those gossiping behind the closed protecting door at the live monitors.

She did her best trying to speak between thrusts. If that was her last chance she'd face it professionally.

"Oh God... He's tearing me! Please... stay home... don't open the door... please..." she said while feeling how her body reacted to him lubing her cunt, giving into the heinous pleasure. Her mouth opened agape trying to get some air to endure the way he was ravishing her. She fought not to moan.

He took her hair in a thick bunch forcing her to face the camera, panting and making all kinds of faces. He was huge and strong. Her slim body was a ragdoll under his relentless thrusts.

He came loud and long inside her on national television. He howled like an animal, his body trembling in sheer ecstasy. His hips kept powerfully jerking behind her until his cock spurted the last drop. She stared at the red light of the camera, eyes wide open in utter disbelief. Never in her imagination would she have believed she was going to be raped live coast to coast staring at a camera.

He pulled out and staggered back. Relief calmed him down. At least for a few minutes.

Pat tried to get up and cover herself in modesty. As she stepped back stumbling and sore she watched a thick line of thick cum going down her now exposed thighs. She extended her finger, rubbing it in disbelief. Her face was red in humiliation knowing she was so close to cum on camera while being raped She ran to the bathroom.

The camera kept rolling. On screen just a wet white stain over the blue news desk and Pat's panties remained.

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The apartment was on the third floor of a complex in Clairemont. Outside, the city was all shouts, violence and chaos.

Angela stood with her back against her son's bedroom door, both hands pressed flat on the wood. She was forty four. She worked out twice a week to keep her figure, yet she was extremely slim. She was still in the same clothes from yesterday's party, her brunette hair tangled, eyes red from not sleeping.

"It's just a fever, baby," she said for the tenth time, voice shaking. "You're gonna be fine. Mommy's right here."

Behind the door was Daniel, twenty one, tall, football player. He was usually quiet. Today he was breathing like an animal. Hard. Wet. Every few seconds the wood shuddered when his body slammed into it.

"It burns, Mom!" His voice was thick, threatening, almost unrecognizable. "It burns so fucking bad! Let me out!"

"No! You're sick. You'll stay in there until it passes." Angela said in clear denial. She wouldn't stand that her beloved perfect son was infected by what she had just seen in the news.

She had locked him in some minutes ago when she found him on the living room floor, pants open, cock angry and red, stroking himself like he couldn't stop. She managed to trick him into getting something from his room, closing and locking the door behind him.

He wasn't the same after last night's Halloween party with the football team and the cheerleaders. He would usually come home drunk, but would be fine after some sleep. This time it was different.

He was looking different from the moment he stepped out of his car and got in the house. He had stared at her with pure panic and sheer hunger at the same time.

Now Angela was terrified and didn't know what to do. The best choice was to lock her son down, no matter how much he pleaded. Perhaps he'd be better in a couple of hours.

The doorframe cracked with his next hurl. It wasn't going to hold much longer. The sound echoed in all the house.

Angela spun around. Her daughter Sophia, nineteen, still in her pink pajamas stood in her bedroom, peeping from behind the door, her phone clutched to her chest playing a clip from the news feed.

"Mom, the news says people are attacking their own families," Sophia said, dread showing in her face and her voice.

Then, with his last hit, the door exploded outward throwing pieces all around.

Daniel came through in a rush of splintered wood and pure need. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown. His cock was out, hard, shiny with pre cum, the head almost purple. He didn't even look at his sister at first.

He went straight for Angela. He was charging the same way he did as a quarterback.

She tried to push him back. But he was stronger. Much stronger! He slammed her against the opposite wall, yanked her pants and underwear down in one violent motion. Then he shoved his dick inside her, pinning her to the wall.

Angela shrieked loud, her eyes wide open as she felt her son's big and swollen cock painfully tearing her cunt brutally open. Her hands forcefully pushed and hit him on his wide chest, uselessly trying to get him off.

The burn in him quieted the second he bottomed out inside her cunt. At that moment she wasn't his mother. She was just a hole he could use to put out the fire.

Angela's cry was pure horror. "Daniel... baby... Stop! Please... you're hurting me... I'm your mum!" she cried, not feeling like raising her voice even while feeling his cock tearing her apart.

He didn't listen. He fucked her hard, desperate, face buried in her neck, muttering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it hurts, it won't stop. I need your cunt" while his hips snapped forward again and again frantically. Every thrust bought him a few seconds of relief. Every time he pulled back the fire roared higher and forced him deeper. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Sophia screamed while urgently trying to close the door, but she was too close to the scene. Daniel's hand shot out, grabbed her wrist, and forcefully yanked her close to them without ever stopping the rhythm inside their mother. He brutally shoved Sophia against the wall beside Angela, ripped her pajama shorts down, and mercilessly forced two fingers into her cunt while he kept pounding their mother.

Sophia sobbed. Angela sobbed. Daniel's mind was still there. He could hear every word, every cry, feel every tear. But his mind was in primal mode. He just groaned with every thrust, sighing in relief as he felt his cock buried in his mother cunt, his balls slapping her ass. His need was stronger and more important than anything else.

He came inside Angela with a loud broken groan, his ass cheeks clenched as he pushed inside, flooding her, then pulled out. He was panting. His eyes still looked wild. Surprisingly he was still hard and hungry for more. Sophia's eyes widened in terror as she saw her brother's cock still menacing, twitching. She knew she was next in line, her own pussy clenched in anticipation.

"No Dany! Please don't!" she just managed to say, unable to stop him.

He turned fully on his sister. She was petite and slender as her mother, frail, inexperienced. He easily dominated her. He just lifted her, pinned her facing the wall, and drove his eager insatiable cock into her in one long, punishing stroke.

Sophia couldn't believe how big her brother's cock really was as he forced himself inside her raw. She had secretly fantasized about it more than once, late at night, never thinking it would happen like this. She wasn't a virgin anymore, but she'd only made love twice with some inexperienced boy her age. Nothing had ever felt this thick, this deep. A shameful pulse of pleasure betrayed her even as terror flooded her chest. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp. She clenched her fists and teeth, enduring her brother's assault, feeling his hips slam hard against her ass with every brutal thrust.

Daniel's big cock hurt her, stretching her cunt to the limit, making her beg him to slow down, clapping her palms on the wall in desperation.

"Ughhh! Stop! You're hurting me!" Sophia cried, only to add an extra spark of pleasure on Daniel's eyes.

She tried to breathe deeply and relax remembering her fantasies. Yet she was feeling her cunt forced to his cock size. Her brother's way of taking her was brutal, punishing, breathtaking. He was resizing her pussy in ways she never imagined.

"No!! Not your sister!!" Angela cried, realizing how she underestimated the situation. "You bastard!! Take me, not her!!" she futilely begged.

But Daniel was enjoying Sophia's cunt too much. He was grabbing her by her hair and riding her wild. He was in absolute bliss as he raped his sister's velvet nubile cunt. He could only think of filling her with his seed.

The apartment filled with the wet sound of slapping and thuds, the broken cries of the two women, and Daniel's ragged, horrified breathing and moans as he took them both, one after the other, over and over, until the next wave forced him to start again.

He seemed tireless. As soon as Sophia or Angela struggled to stand up on their battered legs, he would take them down face down on the floor and nail them from behind, making them crawl trying to escape. Until the infection got them...

Outside, the city was in an uncontrollable turmoil.

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Dawn was almost breaking when Malika pushed through the glass doors of the precinct. Her uniform shirt hung open and wrinkled, one sleeve torn at the shoulder. Dark stains had dried stiff across the fabric. Her nipples were hard and aching under the thin black bra, two sharp points of pain that matched the fire between her legs. Every sexual part of her body hurt.

Phones insistently rang without answers. Sergeant Harlan Cross looked up from his paperwork. Fifty two, solid build, gray at the temples. Separated for the third time two years ago. He had trained her. He had also spent those two years staring at her ass and making comments every chance he got. He had dreamed of her since then.

"Ustinova. Where the hell have you been? Torres is still dark and dispatch is losing its damn mind."

Malika stopped in front of his desk. The burn sat low and mean, already climbing. She needed cock. She needed cum as much as she needed air to breathe. She had already attacked two guys on her way.

She learned that fucking only bought her a few minutes. Taking a warm load deep inside calmed it for maybe ten. After that it came back worse. No matter how much cum dripped from her slit, she needed more!

She forced her voice steady and let her shirt show him a little more as she bent in front of him.

"I need to show you something, Sarge. Private. Interview room."

Harlan's eyes dropped straight to her chest. The clear outline of her hard nipples pressed against the thin bra, her panting belly. He grinned that same dirty grin he always used on her. He was definitely on whatever she proposed.

"Lead the way, officer." he said out loud. "About fucking time you stopped playing hard to get." he added mumbling behind her.

She walked ahead of him. Every step was a fight. Inside her head a voice was screaming: Don't jump him out here. You'll end up in a cell. Get him alone. Use the way he looks at you. Get his cock. Get his cum. Then the next one.

The interview room door clicked shut behind him. Harlan leaned against the metal table, already adjusting himself.

"So what's so important you had to drag me in here? Finally ready to show me those tits you've been hiding?"

Malika turned. She unbuttoned the rest of her shirt slowly and let it drop. The black bra followed. Her full C cup breasts spilled free, perky, nipples dark and tight, aching so hard she hissed when the cold air hit them. She shoved her duty pants down in no time. No panties. Lost hours ago with Torres. Rests of cum leaking her cunt Harlan didn't see. She stood there for a minute, bare, slick, the swollen lips of her cunt glistening under the fluorescent lights. She was doing everything in her mind not to jump over him, not to put him on alert.

Harlan's crude smile widened. He didn't take the effort to think. It was Christmas time for him! And she was the gift. He was as easy as she expected.

"Jesus!! Look at that pretty little cunt. Knew you'd come around eventually," he said, rubbing his cock under his uniform pants. "You want some?"

She shoved him back against the table hard enough to make it scrape. Dropped to her knees. Yanked his belt open and pulled his cock out. It was already half hard. She took him deep in one wet slide, moaning loud around him on purpose. The sound echoed off the bare walls.

Every second her mouth was on him the burn eased. When she pulled off it roared back through her cunt, her nipples, everywhere.

She shoved him flat on the table, climbed up, and sank down onto his cock in one brutal thrust. Both of them groaned. She rode him hard, leaning forward, palms braced on his chest, hips slamming down with ugly force. Her aching nipples dragged across the rough fabric of his uniform shirt on every stroke. The friction burned, sharp and constant, and she pressed into it anyway, needing the pain as much as the relief. A low, involuntary sound tore out of her, half gasp, half sob, before she could bite it back.

Harlan's hands clamped hard on her waist. He thrust up to meet her, loud and filthy, not giving a shit why she was suddenly like this, only that he was finally getting what he'd been staring at for two years.

"Fuck yeah... that's it! Bounce on that cock! Goddamn, your cunt's dripping! Knew you'd turn out to be a filthy little whore the second you stopped playing hard to get."

A thick, wet grunt ripped out of him as he slammed up into her.

After several brutal minutes she came first.

The orgasm tore through her sharp and vicious, her cunt clamping down on him like it wanted to rip the cum out of his body. For a few seconds the fire finally shut up. The relief was so strong it almost made her cry.

Then the disgust hit just as hard.

She was cumming on Harlan Cross's cock. The same pig who had been undressing her with his eyes for two years. And she was the one infecting him on purpose.

Better him than some innocent.

The thought was ice-cold even while her hips kept moving, filthy and hungry, grinding down to drag every last second of relief out of him. She hated how much she needed it. Hated that her body was still working him, greedy and shameless.

When Harlan cock went limp, she didn't stay on him a second longer than she had to. Malika rolled off to the side and dropped onto her back across the metal table, legs falling open without shame. Harlan's cum was already leaking out of her in a thick, warm line, sliding down the curve of her ass and pooling on the cold surface. She lay there breathing hard, skin shiny with sweat, nipples still tight and aching.

The fire had quieted. For now. She felt better. And filthy. And already hungry again. She also knew the calm wouldn't last. Ten minutes, maybe less, and the burn would come crawling back worse than before.

Outside the door, Officer Reyes had been walking past when the first loud moan hit him. Then another. Then Harlan's deep, dirty shouting. He pushed the door open without knocking.

He froze.

Malika was spread out on the table like something left behind after a crime. Legs open, chest rising and falling too fast, cum still dripping out of her. Harlan was half-sitting beside her, pants around his thighs, looking wrecked.

Reyes' face went blank for a second. Then the shock hit.

"What the fuck...?"

His voice came out tight. He didn't move. His eyes flicked from Malika's open legs to Harlan's face and back again, like his brain was refusing to put the pieces together.

Malika's mind was already working. She couldn't let Reyes walk out of this room. If he talked, she was finished. They'd lock her in a cell and the burn would eat her alive with nothing to put it out. At the same time the other thought was louder, hungrier. The more cum she could get inside her, the longer the quiet would last. Her mind had already narrowed to one thing, more sex, more cum. She still knew it was wrong, but the knowledge sat somewhere far away, useless against the pulse between her legs.

She stayed cold. Calculating.

A small, broken sound left her throat. She let her face crumple just enough.

"He... he wouldn't stop," she whispered, voice shaking on purpose. "I tried..."

Harlan was still trying to get his pants up, breathing hard, the first real edge of the burn already starting to crawl up the base of his cock. He rushed out, leaving the door open behind him.

Reyes stepped closer without thinking, the shock still raw on his face.

"Malika! Shit, are you okay? Did he...?"

His eyes kept dropping. To her open legs. To the thick line of cum still leaking out of her. To her nipples, tight and shiny with sweat.

She saw the clear shape of his cock hardening against his uniform pants. The sight of her like this was already working on him. Of course it was.

When he got close enough she moved. Her hand shot out, slipped under his belt, and wrapped around his cock through the fabric first, then inside, skin on skin. He was already thick, already leaking. She gave him one slow, deliberate stroke and felt him jerk.

At the same time she leaned in. Her mouth brushed the side of his neck, then higher. She caught his earlobe between her lips and sucked once, soft and wet, before speaking against his skin.

"Shh," she said, voice steady, almost gentle. "Just let me."

Reyes froze again, mouth half open, caught between pulling away and pushing into her hand. She didn't kiss him on the mouth. She didn't need to. The neck and the ear were enough. Precise. Calculated. A cold little machine doing exactly what was required to keep him there.

She didn't give him time to think. Malika shoved his pants down hard, turned him, and forced him flat on his back across the metal table next to Harlan. In one clean motion she snapped the cuff around his right wrist and locked it to the table leg. The click was sharp and final.

Reyes jerked against it at once.

"Malika! What the fuck! Stop!" he reacted in awe.

But she didn't listen. She was already climbing on the table. Malika lined him up and sank down in one long ruthless slide. Harlan's cum was still thick inside her. It forced out around Reyes's cock in a wet filthy rush the second she took him to the base, spilling down over his balls and onto the table.

The sound was obscene. Reyes's free hand shot up and shoved at her hip but there was no real strength left in it. Malika didn't even look down. She just started riding him. Fast. Deep. Almost violent. Using his cock like it was nothing but a source.

Reyes thrashed under her. The cuff rattled hard against the metal. His face twisted between fury and something uglier. He was hard as steel inside her even while he tried to twist away. The more he fought the tighter her cunt clenched.

She could feel everything with cold clarity. The thick stretch he was provoking by pushing through the mess already inside her. The way his cock twitched every time she rolled her hips. The helpless little jumps he couldn't stop. She was milking him on purpose. Tight deliberate pulls on the way up, hard wet slams on the way down. Cum and her own slick made every stroke louder, wetter, filthier.

Reyes's thoughts were fracturing under the sensation. His cock was loving it no matter what he thought.

"This is so wrong! I shouldn't...." He mumbled "Fuck!! It feels so good!!" he couldn't repress anymore.

A deep wet grunt tore out of him. His free hand stopped pushing and just gripped her thigh instead, fingers digging hard into the muscle. His hips started answering hers. She was damned good getting what she wanted and there was no way he could stop her.

Malika came first with a choked grunt, her cunt clamping down hard around him.

But she never slowed. She kept working his cock through her own orgasm, eyes half lidded, focused only on the one thing that mattered.

Reyes' resistance collapsed a few seconds later. His back arched. A broken sound ripped out of his throat as he unrestrainedly pumped the first load into her, thick pulses mixing with everything already dripping out of her. She rode him hard through every spurt, grinding down, pulling it out of him until his body went tight and shaking.

She still didn't stop. Reyes tried to twist away the moment the last pulse left him, sensitive and overstimulated, but the cuff held him and her weight pinned him. Malika adjusted her angle and kept moving, slower now, deeper, dragging her cunt along his cock while it was still hard and twitching. Fresh cum and the earlier mess made wet filthy sounds with every stroke.

"No... wait... I just..." he said, his face contorted as he tried to cope with her overstimulation.

She ignored him.

She used the oversensitive aftershocks against him, working his cock with short precise rolls until the resistance in his body started turning into something else again. Reyes's free hand was trembling on her thigh. His breathing had gone ragged.

He was getting hard all over again inside the slick heat of her and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Malika felt him swell back to full hardness inside her. She leaned forward, nipples brushing his face. She rode him with ugly determination until she forced another orgasm out of him.

Reyes came with a wrecked sound, hips jerking weakly, pumping whatever he had left into the already overflowing mess between her legs.

When it was finally over she stayed seated on him for a moment longer, breathing hard, feeling the thick mix of both loads leaking out around his cock and running down onto the table.

Reyes lay under her ruined, exhausted, still twitching, the cuff locked tight around his right wrist. His eyes were open but unfocused. The sick understanding sat heavy in his chest: his body had given her everything she wanted, twice, and part of him had liked every second of it.

When Harlan left the interview room the burn was already climbing hard behind his balls. His ten minutes were counting down fast, perhaps because of his usual high sexual drive.

He needed someone who wasn't ready for it. Someone who would fight. And he knew the perfect prey.

The holding cells were at the end of the hallway. One woman was still inside from the night before. Mid thirties. Dark short hair with an undercut on her left side. Alone on the narrow bench. She had been arrested at a feminist protest that turned into a street fight. The charge was written up as DUI to dodge the repression argument they always used.

She wore a pair of extremely short jean hot pants that barely covered her ass and a thin rainbow logo blouse. A raised fist inside a Venus symbol was tattooed high on her left thigh. All of her shouted confrontation.

Harlan knew who she was. Everyone at the precinct did. The 'dyke' from the protest. The one who had spat at officers and called them pigs. He had watched her through the bars earlier with a quiet, ugly interest. Even before the burn he had liked the idea of breaking women who thought they were untouchable. He was deeply convinced he could 'cure' her lesbianism by giving her the fuck she never had.

He unlocked the cell with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling, stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

She looked up, voice thick after barely being able to sleep on that dirty mattress.

"What's up, Officer? Is it morning already?" she asked "Did my lawyer come and you regret releasing me?" She mocked

He didn't answer. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her off her feet, throwing her hard onto the stained mattress.

She scrambled, eyes wide.

"Get off me! What the fuck are you doing?!" she shouted "Don't you dare touch me!"

Harlan was on her in no time. He pinned her with his full weight and went for the hot pants first. The zipper tore under his hands with a sharp metallic rip. He yanked the fabric down her thighs with brute force until it tangled around her closing knees.

He pulled the folding knife from his duty belt, flicked it open, and sliced the denim open along one seam. Her eyes went wide in terror. The blade was cold against her skin for half a second. Then the hot pants and her underwear were gone.

She screamed and thrashed, eyes closely following his knife.

He didn't stop. He grabbed the front of her blouse with both hands and ripped it open. Buttons flew. The thin fabric split. No bra. Her breasts spilled free. He clamped hard onto both nipples at once, twisting, pinching until her back arched and a raw sound of pain tore out of her throat. He had always liked that sound. Even before the fire in his cock he had liked the moment a woman realized she couldn't stop what was happening.

"I know what you are," he rasped against her ear. "You don't want this. That's why it's going to feel so fucking good."

He forced her legs open with his knees. She fought with everything she had, trying to slam them shut, spitting him on his face, but he was heavier, stronger, and the burn made him relentless.

When he lined up his steel hard cock and pushed, her cunt clenched tight against him, dry and resisting, trying to deny him entry. The rejection only made him harder. He shoved through it anyway. The thick head of his cock forced her open in one brutal thrust that punched a broken scream out of her.

The sensation was exact and terrible. Her body tried to stay closed, but he was simply stronger. Inch by inch he drove himself inside the clenched heat until he was buried to the base, his pubic hair scratching her clit

Her mind fractured under the violation.

She was a lesbian. She had never wanted a man inside her. The idea alone had always filled her with cold disgust. Now a man in uniform was splitting her open and there was nothing she could do. The physical violation was bad enough. Worse was the sick traitorous warmth that started building low in her belly against every conscious wish. Her body, stupid and biological, was responding to the thick stretch, to the relentless friction, to the way he kept grinding against places she had only ever touched with women. Pleasure she had never asked for and never wanted began to mix with the pain and the terror. The contradiction made her want to vomit.

Harlan felt her start to get wetter and it only drove him harder. He fucked her like the fire demanded it. Deep. Punishing. Every stroke slammed her body higher up the thin mattress making the bed rhythmically squeak.

He kept one hand locked around her throat, cutting her air whenever she got too loud, and used the other to keep twisting and pinching her nipples until they were dark and swollen.

She kept fighting even as her strength failed. She even tried to knee him. Tried to claw his face. He slapped her hard enough to make her vision spark, then went back to choking her while he thrust. Her face was red, eyes bulging, mouth agape while her hands failed to ease his grip.

"I can't stop it," he groaned against her ear, voice wrecked. "It hurts so fucking bad. And you feel so fucking good fighting me." he grinned.

She was sobbing now, the fight draining out of her under his weight and the lack of air. Her screams turned into broken, wet sounds that rose every time he bottomed out. The wet slap of skin filled the cell. The smell of sweat and sex hung thick.

He came with a long shaking groan, flooding her in thick warm pulses harder than anything he could remember. His mind went white for a moment.

For a few seconds the fire went quiet. He stayed buried inside her, forehead pressed to the mattress, both of them shaking. She was crying, wrecked, the sound small and destroyed. Cum was already leaking out around his cock.

Then the quiet started to fade.

He pulled out. She lay there with her thighs open, blouse ripped, breasts marked by his fingers, a heavy white line of cum leaking from her slit and running down onto the stained mattress. The ruined hot pants were still tangled around one ankle. The raised fist tattoo looked almost mocking against her skin. She curled up facing the wall and cried.

Harlan stared at what he had done. His cock was glistening, sore, shiny with her and his juices.

The relief was already slipping away. The next wave was coming fast and he knew it.

He stood up on unsteady legs, pulled his pants closed, and unlocked the cell door. He left it open and walked out without looking back, heading for the street.

The next ten minutes were already running down. The burn was starting to climb again. He needed a new prey and he was going to get it.

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Half an hour before the first screams reached the coastal community church on the edge of Clairemont, Pastor Elias Crowe was still in the small counseling room behind the sanctuary.

The woman sitting across from him had arrived alone. Mid thirties. Modest long dress. Her eyes were red, she'd been crying. She had told him she needed to confess something urgent. He closed the door, ready to offer the usual comforts of faith.

He had no idea what she already carried.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The burn between her legs was a living thing eating her little by little. Her panties were just gone. She had lost them somewhere in the last hour and could not remember where, as a matter of fact she had a blurry recollection of her whereabouts during the last hour. Under the long grey skirt her thighs were slick, shiny with desperate wetness. For the last ten minutes she had been pressing the thick base of a church candle barely inside her cunt, hidden by the fabric, rolling it slowly to keep the worst of the fire controlled. Yet, it was not enough.

She looked at the pastor with a carefully broken expression while her mind worked cold and clear. Despite her repenting appearance, she was desperate. She was going to infect him.

The thought sat next to her faith like a second heartbeat. Part of her still prayed this was God's test. Another part wanted the holy man who spoke about purity to feel the same filthy animal need that was eating her alive. Perhaps he could teach her how to handle it before it was too late.

Pastor Crowe leaned forward, voice gentle.

"Whatever happened to you, my child, The Lord can wash it clean. Tell me." he said with a calm face, his voice comforting.

Her lower lip trembled. Then she slid off the chair and sank to her knees in front of him. with a sudden small cry.

The movement pushed the thick candle a bit deeper inside her. A sharp mix of pain and unwanted pleasure punched through her belly. The pastor saw only a repentant woman on her knees.

Her hands, shaking for real now, reached for his belt.

"I need you to cast it out of me," she whispered. "Please. I can't carry it alone."

Deep down Elias Crowe had always kept certain thoughts locked away. Hard thoughts. Filthy thoughts. In his private mystical delusion he had long believed that the devil entered the body through lust, through the open legs of weak women, through the mouths that took what they should not. Tonight those old ideas mixed with something newer and hungrier. He watched her open his zipper with careful fingers and felt his control begin to slip. He just stared in a mix of awe and sexual desire, unable to move.

She took him into her mouth. Wet. Hot. Desperate.

At the same time her hidden right hand moved under the long skirt. She worked the thick candle in slow, deep strokes while she sucked him, fucking herself in secret with the instrument of the church. Every time she pushed it deeper a broken little tremor ran through her thighs. The pain was bright. The relief was brighter. She moaned around his cock and the vibration made his hips jerk.

Pastor Crowe stared down at her. Paralyzed, overwhelmed by her delicious lips and tongue caressing of his cock.

In his mind the scene was already twisting into theology. This was the devil's work. This was what happened when the flesh opened the door. And yet he could not stop his hand from settling on the back of her head. He began to guide her, slow at first, then harder, feeding her more of his cock while she choked and drooled and kept working the candle inside herself with ugly determination.

"The devil is in you," he whispered, voice thick. "I can feel it. We will drive him out."

His beliefs were already twisting under the weight of his pleasure. There would be time to talk about sin later. At that moment he felt his cum was sacred and would bless her and release all the evil thoughts out of her mind.

She only sucked harder, eyes watering, thighs shaking, the candle slick and buried deep. Every wet sound from her mouth mixed with the softer, filthier sounds of the candle moving inside her cunt. She was infecting him on purpose and punishing herself at the same time. The contradiction made her dizzy with a sick kind of heat.

He lasted longer than she expected. When he finally came it was with a low, shaken groan. He held her head in place and flooded her mouth with thick pulses, hips stuttering. She swallowed greedily, feeling the temporary calm spread through her body like warm water. The candle was still inside her. She gave it one last deep push and came silently around it, cunt clenching hard, a single tear running down her cheek.

For a moment the room was quiet except for their breathing.

Pastor Crowe pulled back, zipped himself with unsteady hands, and laid a trembling palm on her head.

"Go in peace," he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. "The devil has been cast out with the holy seed... for now."

She stayed on her knees a second longer, tasting him, feeling his cum settle in her stomach while the candle slowly slipped out of her and rolled under the desk. Then she rose, adjusted her long skirt with careful dignity, and kneeled facing a cross praying in mumbles.

Pastor Elias Crowe stood alone for a moment, the first soft pulse of heat already beginning to build behind his balls. He did not yet understand what it meant. He mistook it for the normal aftermath of orgasm.

He smoothed his shirt, put on the gentle face his congregation expected, and stepped out into the sanctuary to welcome the faithful who were beginning to arrive, seeking shelter and prayer.

The red carpet still ran clean down the center aisle. The altar was dressed in white. Everything looked holy and sacred as always.

Pastor Elias stepped into the sanctuary with the gentle face his people expected. The front pews were already filling. A dozen people were there, almost all women. Most of them were still wearing the clothes they had fled in. Blouses buttoned wrong. Hair tangled. Eyes wide and shining with the particular shock of people who had watched their own homes turn into something unrecognizable. Panic was written on their faces.

They all wanted to speak at once. Elias raised both hands, the old calming gesture, and they quieted enough for one voice to rise above the others.

A woman in her forties, still wearing a modest cardigan, clutched a tissue until it shredded.

"My husband," she said, voice cracking. "You know him, he's the most devout man I know. He leads the men's prayer group." she started.

"This morning I came back from the store and found him on top of our babysitter. She's just nineteen! He had his pants down! He shredded her clothes!" she sobbed

"He had her down on the living room floor. She was screaming for him to stop!" She cried "He was raping her!" She crumbled on the floor while others helped her.

"He just... he just... kept going. He looked at me while he groaned cumming inside her!" she said in utter disbelief "He looked straight at me and said the devil made him do it."

A ripple of broken sounds moved through the pews. Other women nodded, eyes wet, each carrying a similar story they had not yet spoken aloud. Elias tried to calm them down by praying.

"Lord, protect your flock from this darkness..." he prayed. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall lack nothing"

Elias moved along the front row while everybody repeated the chant. He laid a hand on each forehead in turn giving them protection. The contact was supposed to be pure. Instead every touch was sending a fresh pulse of heat crawling lower through his gut. The fire behind his balls was no longer a distant warning. It was climbing in earnest, wet and mean, almost uncontrollable. He kept his face serene by force of will alone. He told himself this was a test. He told out loud the devil was pressing against the walls of the church and he would not let him in.

He almost believed it. They almost believed him.

Then he reached the woman at the end of the pew.

She was younger than the others. Mid twenties. Her blouse was open one button too far, showing the soft inner curve of her young ample breasts. The skirt she wore had ridden up when she sat, leaving most of her thighs bare. Smooth. Warm. Unprotected. Elias's eyes snagged on the exposed skin and something inside him simply snapped. His control shattered completely. His face transfigured. His breathing ragged and primal.

He dragged the young woman from her blonde hair onto the red carpet. He straddled with his knees on both sides of her hips and tore at her clothes with both hands. The white blouse gave first, buttons scattering across the floor. He yanked it off her arms and threw it aside. The short plaid skirt followed, ripped down her legs along with her panties in one violent pull.

The young lady was naked under him in seconds. She fought hard, twisting, hitting at his chest, trying to cover her breasts with one arm while the other tried in vain to hold her skirt. He finally caught both wrists, pinned them above her head with one hand, and used the other to clamp hard onto her nipples squeezing and twisting the soft buttons until she screamed.

"Get off me! Please! Someone help me!" she cried in desperation.

Nobody moved. Everybody stayed there watching in awe Pastor Elias' sudden transformation. They were shocked. The memories of what they saw at their homes relived a few feet from them.

He forced her legs open with his knees and drove his cock into her with a single brutal thrust that punched the air from her lungs. The sound of his grunt echoed under the high ceiling. She kept fighting even while he fucked her. Her hips bucking, nails raking his shoulders. Every resistance only made him grip her harder and groan louder. He definitely was enjoying her resistance.

The woman from the counseling room heard the screams and ran to the sanctuary. Her eyes were glassy, the long modest dress was visibly soaked between her thighs. Without hesitation she dragged her skirt down her legs, and stepped out of it. She wore nothing underneath. Her hairy cunt and inner thighs shone with thick, desperate wetness that caught the light. She walked straight to the struggling pair on the carpet, dropped to her knees, and swung one leg over the younger woman's head. She sat down hard on her face, grinding her slick cunt against the girl's mouth and nose.

"Mmmph...! No...!" the girl cried.

The younger lady's cries turned wet and muffled. The candle woman rode her face forth and back rubbing her cunt over her mouth with ugly determination, while Elias kept slamming into her from below. The smell of sex and sweat began to rise in the still air of the church.

One of the women near the main doors panicked and shoved them open trying to flee. Too late to acknowledge her big error.

The whole street poured in carrying her in the process. Twenty plus infected men and women slammed through the entrance in a violent wave of thirsty human beings wanting nothing else than sex. The remaining congregation shrieked in utter dread.

"Close the door!" one of the women shouted in panic trying to flee to the other side. But it was too late.

They were overwhelmed almost instantly. There were two attackers running over every person who tried to escape. The long modest skirts were ripped straight up the middle, and soon the sound of tearing fabric mixed with the screams and pleads flooding the space. Necklines were torn open as easily. Bras and panties yanked off and thrown aside over the pews or the main carpet. The few praying men kneeling at the cross were dragged down onto the cold floor and over the red carpet.

The increasing wet, filthy sounds of mouths and cunts and cocks filled the church in a rising chorus of moans, grunts, cries and broken screams.

A blonde middle aged woman in a modest dress was shoved backwards against the wall beneath a large painted image of the Virgin. A strong, well built infected black man yanked her from her knees, hips up, tore her underwear aside, and forced his cock into her cunt in one motion, making her ride it. She screamed and frantically moved both hands hitting his shoulders, the holy image staring down at her while he pounded her without rhythm or mercy.

"No! Please!" she pleaded "You're in God's house! Leave me!"

Another young man appeared beside them, eyes empty of everything except need. He grabbed her by her waist as he pulled her upper body away from the wall just enough to get behind her. Before she could understand what was happening he lined up behind her and drove his cock into her virgin ass in one raw merciless thrust.

The sound she made was raw and animal.

"AHHH! Take it out! take it out! it hurts!" she squirmed between two strong lustful men that sandwiched her. They weren't going to stop.

Her body tried to fight against the invasion, climbing up the shoulders of the black giant, but they were stronger and not willing to let her go.

The young man was buried to the hilt in her tight ass, and started fucking her shithole with short, brutal strokes while the black man kept using her stretched cunt. She was breathless, beyond help, caught between them, impaled at both ends, sobbing and screaming under the painted eyes of the Virgin. Thick tears ran down her face. Every time the man in her ass bottomed out a fresh scream tore out of her. The pain was white and total. The shame was worse. The wet slap of two cocks working her body filled the space around them. She could only stare at the fake tears painted in the virgin's image that didn't compare to the ones she was crying. The smell of sex and fear hung heavy and intoxicated her prude nose.

Across the aisle two infected women had dragged a young praying usher to the floor between the pews. One of them forcefully sat on his face, smothering him with her dripping cunt, while the other sank onto his cock and rode him hard, tits bouncing in no time.

"Fuck! Use your mouth, keep it open! Lick it, you asshole!" she commanded.

His muffled cries mixed with the wet sounds of her fucking him. He could feel his cock stiff and hot, feeling every jump the woman on it was giving. The powerful scent of the damped cunt over his nose was too much. His body was instinctively responding, and the overwhelming inevitable pleasure filled him with guilt. He knew there's nothing he could do. He was going to cum and he was going to enjoy it. The devil was taking him.

Three feet away a man had another woman bent over the back of a pew, skirt shredded, while he took her from behind pulling on her braids riding her cunt with punishing devastating force. Another older fat man stepped in front of them and forcefully pulled her head up from the chin to face him. Then he slapped her and forced her to open her mouth. As soon as she did, he pushed his already dripping cock deep in her throat.

The whole place was pandemonium. All sacred images and places being profaned, defiled. It all turned the place into nothing but a whorehouse. Cum was already starting to drip onto the red carpet in several places, some fresh and glistening, some smeared by crawling bodies. Stains of cum and juices were everywhere and the sound of flesh over flesh filled the sacred space.

On the altar itself a woman was forcefully dragged up the steps and thrown onto her back across the white cloth throwing flowers and Bible away. Another infected man climbed between her legs and forced his cock into her cunt with a single hard thrust.

Visible to everyone for further chaos, another man in his sixties grabbed her by the hair, turned her head, and shoved his glistening cock into her open mouth, silencing her scream. His grey pubic hair roughed her panicked face as she fought to breathe. They used her together on the sacred table, one fucking her throat while the other pounded between her thighs.

Thick strings of spit and precum ran down her chin. The white altar cloth was stained with sweat and cum. A broken rosary skittered off the edge and hit the floor.

Pastor Elias was still jumping over the young girl on the carpet, the candle woman was still grinding on the younger woman's face working towards her second orgasm over her mouth. Oblivious to everything that was happening around him in his own church, Pastor Elias was eagerly fucking the girl beneath them both for third time. He came with a broken shout, flooding her. A thick pool of cum had already spread under her open legs. As soon as he left his place to find another fuck hole, another man took his place frantically fucking her pussy as if his life depended on it. She had stopped fighting. She just lay there and let them use her while the burn began to climb between her legs.

The sanctuary had become one wet, screaming mass of bodies. Torn clothing, broken rosaries, and discarded Bibles littered the floor. Moans and cries and the heavy slap of flesh bounced off the walls and the high ceiling until the holy space sounded like something that had never known prayer.

As minutes passed by, cries got replaced by moans and grunts. The air was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and primal lust. The red carpet grew darker with every fresh load spilled across it. The cross hung above it all, silent, while the church was a ruined group of nymphomaniacs beneath it.

Outside the doors, the city burned with the same fever.

Inside, there was no God left. Only the fire as a common need. They all shared the same inferno.

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Marcus and Lila reached the black site north of La Jolla just after six in the morning. The burn was already eating both of them alive. Marcus gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles had gone white. Every few seconds his hips jerked. Pre-cum had soaked through the front of his pants hours ago and the fabric clung cold and sticky.

Beside him Lila sat with her thighs crushed together, breathing through her teeth, one hand shoved hard between her legs like she could hold the fire in by force. Her witch costume was long gone. She wore only the ruined skirt and a borrowed jacket that did nothing to hide the way her nipples stayed tight and aching.

The gates opened after two layers of biometric scans and a verbal code Marcus almost could not get out. His voice cracked twice.

Armed guards in full sealed hazmat suits (white, hooded, masked, gloves locked at the wrists) met them at the inner checkpoint. The visors reflected nothing. No one spoke more than necessary.

They were separated at once.

Marcus tried to stay with her. "She's infected too! Listen to me. You have to..."

A cattle prod touched the back of his thigh. The shock dropped him to one knee. They dragged him the rest of the way.

He was stripped under cold fluorescent lights, sprayed down with something chemical that burned his skin, then marched naked into Observation Bay 3.

The room was wide and white. The ceiling was glass. Above it, behind polarized panels, a dozen figures in lab coats and military fatigues already stood with tablets. Some were writing. They had watched the news all night. They wanted data.

Technicians clamped a thin metal sensor lattice around his skull. The prongs bit into his temples and the base of his skull. The device locked with a soft mechanical click. Across the room the same thing was done to Lila. The second the arrays went live both of them were released into the center of the floor.

They lasted less than ten seconds.

Marcus hit her like a wave. He slammed Lila against the glass wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her. She clawed at his shoulders, already yanking at what was left of his control. They fucked on the observation floor like animals. Biting. Scratching. Leaving blood. Every thrust was desperate and ugly. Lila came first with a broken sound, cunt clamping hard around him, but neither of them stopped. Above them the observers took notes in silence. Someone adjusted the camera angle.

When the data was enough the suits moved in again.

Cattle prods. Short, precise shocks to the thighs and lower backs. Marcus and Lila were driven apart, still dripping, still hard and swollen and half-mad.

They were forcefully strapped to separate gurneys with thick restraints at wrists, ankles, and across the chest. The sensor arrays on their heads kept recording every spike of neural activity.

Lila went first.

They wheeled her into a cold white examination bay. A young woman in her mid-twenties, striking, dark hair pulled into a perfect bun and an older male researcher took over. The woman snapped on gloves with practiced calm. The man simply watched, eyes bright with quiet interest.

What followed was long, deliberate, and humiliating.

Speculum. Swabs deep enough to make Lila arch against the straps. Probes. The young woman discussed her hormone levels and the exact state of her ovulation out loud as if Lila were not there.

"Elevated. Highly receptive. Note the lubrication response even under distress." he noted.

Every time the burn made Lila thrash or scream, the young woman pressed a thick medical vibrator against her clit or pushed it inside her cunt and held it there until Lila came with a furious, broken sound. Then they continued the exam as if nothing had happened.

Lila's mind stayed clear enough to hate it. They are treating me like a breeding animal. I came here for help. I am going to kill every one of them if I ever get free.

Her body did not care. Her body only wanted the next wave of forced relief.

They put her into the MRI still restrained. The vibrator was left inside her, remote controlled. While the machine hammered and hummed around her skull, they stimulated her in precise waves. Lila screamed herself hoarse and came hard inside the scanner, cunt clenching around the device, tears streaming into her hair. The observers above the glass never stopped writing.

Marcus fought the entire time they worked on her. He could hear her through the wall.

He cursed them in the language of their own briefings. He reminded them he had written half the protocols they were using. He called them butchers. When they finally turned to him the threats turned specific and raw.

They collected semen the hard way. A gloved hand first, then a specialized pump that sealed around his cock and sucked in measured pulses, always stopping before he could finish. They edged him until his hips jerked violently against the restraints and thick ropes of pre-cum ran down his shaft. At one point he nearly tore one wrist free and lunged as far as the straps allowed, eyes locked on the young female doctor.

"I will fucking rape you the second I get out of this," he snarled, voice ruined. "I will pin you down and empty everything I've got inside you while you scream. Do you understand me, cunt?"

They answered by increasing the stimulation, making him howl in desperation.

For his MRI they used a different device: a heated, textured sleeve that closed around his cock and moved with mechanical precision, mimicking the grip and wet heat of a cunt. A thin probe was inserted into his ass to monitor prostate activity. The machine brought him to the edge again and again, then stopped. Marcus roared and strained until the veins stood out in his neck. The sleeve and the probe recorded everything. Above the glass someone made a quiet note about peak disinhibition under maximal genital drive.

They had become their live experiment, just a bunch of data and numbers.

Marcus lay rigid on the gurney afterward, chest heaving, cock still twitching and slick, the sensor lattice still biting into his skull. Next door he could hear Lila crying and cursing in equal measure. The burn was already climbing in both of them again. The observers kept writing. The glass ceiling kept watching.

No one cared about them.

After two long hours of exhausting exams they were moved together. Side by side gurneys in a narrower observation room that smelled of antiseptic and hot plastic.

The sensor lattices were removed from their skulls, leaving raw red marks at the temples that stung when the air touched them. The thick tight restraints stayed. Wrists. Ankles. Chest. Neither of them could do more than arch and twist. The leather creaked every time they moved.

Two female nurses and two male orderlies took positions at the sides of the beds. No one spoke to the couple like people.

They were gloves and masks to avoid contamination. A huge sign of biohazard both on the front and back of their suits.

Lila was fitted first.

They locked a wide, heavy harness over her hips that clicked when it got attached to the gurney. The padded section was adjusted lower until it pressed directly over her clit with deliberate inescapable pressure. From the center of it a dense, medical grade black appendage was positioned and pushed deep into her cunt until it seated itself with a thick, wet sound. She moaned.

She was still slick from everything earlier; the intrusion forced a fresh trickle of fluid out around the shaft and down over her ass. The device could vibrate, warm, inflate, and release measured pulses of warm fluid that mimicked semen. The orderlies checked the seals with clinical fingers around her lips. One of them wiped the excess wetness away with a rough paper towel and discarded it in the biohazard container. She trashed trying to get free from the maleficent device, but there was no way out.

At the same time Marcus received the counterpart.

A rigid sleeve closed around his cock from base to head, sealing with a soft pneumatic hiss. Inside it were rings that could constrict, a suction mechanism, heat elements, and vibration nodes. The same system that had edged him in the MRI, now permanently locked on. The sudden enclosed heat made his hips jerk. A clear reservoir at the base already showed a thin thread of fluids being drawn out of him. The female nurses wiped the rest of fluids from his thighs and pubis and also discarded them into the biohazard container.

A large screen on the far wall flickered to life with a low electronic hum. On top of it a small camera lit online.

Dr. Vargas was the project lead, Marcus's direct superior. He looked down at them from a remote bunker. He was wearing his expensive suit, and his expression was polite. Almost warm. The light from the screen threw cold blue shadows across their restrained bodies.

"Marcus. Lila. Thank you both for your involuntary contribution." His voice came through the speakers clean and slightly tinny.

"The data you've already provided tonight will advance our understanding of Agent 7 Rho by months. The nation is in your debt."

Marcus lunged in full rage against the straps, hard enough to make the gurney rattle. The leather bit into his wrists.

"Fuck you, Vargas. Get these things off us. We came here for help, not to be your fucking lab rats!"

Lila's face was wet. She stared at the ceiling, breathing too fast. The harness between her legs felt enormous and inescapable.

Vargas continued as if Marcus had not spoken.

"There is a piece of additional context you should both hear. The initial exposure was not random. A junior researcher, Elena Voss, twenty-six, suffered a micro-leak while running aerosol stability tests. She did not report it." Vargas continued saying.

A small part of the screen started playing a surveillance video while Vargas explained.

Two hours later she came to your office, Marcus. You closed the door. What happened inside is already in the crisis status logs. But it's quite clear as you can see."

Lila's head turned. Her eyes found Marcus. The smell of her own arousal and the earlier mess still hung faintly in the air between them.

"You fucked her?" Her voice was raw, almost cracked, her eyes were like lasers wanting him to burn in hell. "You fucked her behind my back? You brought this shit to me! You piece of shit couldn't hold your fucking dick inside your pants!"

Before Marcus could excuse himself, the device inside Lila activated with a low but increasing internal hum.

A deep, pulsing vibration started high against her clit and went deeper along the shaft buried in her cunt. Heat followed, spreading through her lower belly like swallowed liquor. Then a slow inflation that stretched her uncomfortably full, pressing against every sensitive place at once. Lila's back arched hard enough to lift her shoulders off the mattress. The anger on her face fractured into something helpless. A broken, wet sound tore out of her as the machine forced her straight through a violent orgasm. Her cunt clenched and fluttered around the thick appendage while it pumped warm, viscous fluid into her in thick rhythmic pulses that felt exactly like being filled with cum. The excess leaked out around the seal and ran hot down the cleft of her ass, soaking the sheet beneath her. She shook against the restraints, tears running into her hair, the fury still burning behind her eyes even as her body kept spasming and dripping.

Vargas watched without expression. Somewhere in the room a soft electronic chime marked the recorded orgasm.

"There is no cure at present," he said. "Only palliative management. The protocol you are now under will allow controlled release every thirty minutes while we monitor progression, neural adaptation, and reproductive markers. You are receiving a level of care that will not be available to the general population. I suggest you learn to be grateful."

The sleeve around Marcus's cock came alive almost at the same moment. Sudden suction. Concentrated heat. Tight rhythmic constriction that moved in waves from base to head. It brought him to the edge in under a minute and held him there, vibrating, while pre-cum was drawn out of him in long sticky strings and collected in the clear reservoir with soft, wet clicking sounds. The pressure was perfect and merciless. He roared and strained until the veins stood out in his neck and his stomach muscles trembled, but the machine would not let him finish. The denied orgasm ached both in his cock, his balls, but spreading tension all over his body.

The protocol was merciless and held him over the edge for a long five minutes until letting him cum.

When it happened Marcus roared like never before. He felt his whole life was erupting through his cock. An unbelievable amount of cum got extracted though the relentless pump and filled in the reservoir. Then he fell exhausted against the gurney panting and sweating.

On the screen Vargas gave a small, clinical nod.

"Thirty-minute intervals. We will be observing. Try to rest between cycles." he assured while taking notes. "We'll provide you with the means to feed and manage all your biological needs for some time."

The screen went dark. The four attendants remained at their posts, faces unreadable. The harness inside Lila gave one last soft pulse and then went still, leaving her exhausted, panting and oversensitive; every small shift of her hips made the thick shaft move inside her and sent aftershocks through her clit.

They lay side by side in the white room, restrained, instrumented, and completely at the mercy of the clock.

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** Epilogue **

In less than fifteen days the infection crossed every border. It was logged as the worst disaster in recorded history. Governments fell or turned feral. Only a thin scattering of people in the vulnerable age band stayed clean. Eighty percent of the world population burned with the symptoms.

The origin leaked in pieces. Underground documents appeared on the internet and spread fast.

The truth finally got the light. Developed nations had watched their birth rates die for years as a huge concern affecting economy and stability. Agent 7-Rho was secretly developed as a final demographic weapon. Its aim was to strip sexual inhibition, force conception, leave the higher mind intact so the subjects could still work and obey.

The weapon left the lab unready. Lots yet to be worked on. Yet it got free wildly and uncontrollably. There was no contingency yet developed when it happened.

Pregnancy rates in the hot zones climbed three thousand percent in seventy-two hours. On paper the experiment was a great success. Human costs was something nobody would talk about.

Laws rotted in many countries because they had to. Old sexual statutes became jokes. Certain religions almost disappeared. Official rape reports withered. The category itself blurred under the undefined limit between being infected and forced vs enjoying rape itself. Women taking men by force became common enough to earn its own ugly slang. It was said some guy got 'squeezed out'.

As bellies swelled, the compulsive drive in pregnant women faded. Their scent changed. Predators lost interest. Biology, indifferent to prayer or law, shielded the next generation protecting the gestation.

On Halloween 2027 the first palliative reached the public: a bitter white pill that locked the residual symptoms down for six to twelve hours. Governments gave it away. It brought a brittle peace.

Then the alarm started.

The pill failed women at ovulation. The hormonal spike punched straight through the chemical dam. Rational risk assessment collapsed. Women who had stayed careful for months suddenly walked into dark parking lots, answered strangers' doors, signed waivers at places that should not have existed. The data was still being buried when the second wave of unwanted pregnancies began to show.

Nothing went back to normal ever.

Marcus sat in a government debriefing room six weeks after his last acute case and stared at his hands. He could still feel the exact second he had bent Elena Voss over his desk and driven into her, unaware of the surveillance cameras. The wet heat of her mouth. The tears on her face while she took every inch still echoed in his mind.

He still recalled Lila's voice through the cell speakers when the truth landed. The betrayal did not fade. It hardened into bone. She left him fourteen days after release. She said she could not look at him without seeing the moment he chose another woman's cunt and, in that choice, helped finish the world they had known.

He did not argue. Some nights he still woke with an erection and the clear memory of Elena's walls fluttering around him, and the knowledge that he had loved every second of it.

Lila carried a colder wound. The memory of kneeling on hospital asphalt and desperately swallowing a stranger's cock while Marcus watched never loosened. In the months that followed she learned her cunt would only answer to force. Soft hands left her numb. Consent felt like a costume. The only orgasms that still arrived were the ones taken from her while she fought. Therapists used the word 'trauma'. She didn't give a fuck and stopped answering their calls.

Jake Torres watched Malika's belly rise. He saw her once at the precinct when she came to resign. The curve under the uniform shirt was already obvious. His child. The one he had seeded into her while she sobbed across the hood of his cruiser. Guilt sat in his chest like a swallowed stone. He remembered every detail of her resistance, every broken sound, the exact moment he decided not to pull out. At night the guilt still came. So did the hard-on. His cock remembered the filthy perfection of forcing her open and leaving his cum inside her like a brand.

Malika carried the pregnancy without naming the father. She never spoke about the alley. The burn was gone, yet her body still flinched at certain touches and still grew wet at the memory of being pinned and filled while she clawed for escape. Some nights she woke with her hand between her legs and Jake's weight replayed across her back. Shame and residual hunger slept in the same narrow space.

She kept the child. Her husband soon divorced her. Jake dropped anonymous envelopes with cash for the child support in her mailbox. She wondered who could be until she finally understood it was Jake. Perhaps she could love him after all.

The girl from the alley never filed a report. She changed cities. For weeks she could still feel the concrete grinding against her cheek and the dry, tearing stretch of a stranger in uniform splitting her open.

The physical damage healed. The wiring did not. Gentle sex became impossible for her. Her body only answered when it was held down and used past the point of asking. She needed to feel the struggle to cum. She hated the need. She fed it anyway. The contradiction never resolved.

Pastor Elias Crowe stood in an almost empty sanctuary three months later and tried to speak about forgiveness. Half the pews stayed vacant. The families who remained looked at him with new eyes.

Everyone knew what had happened on the red carpet. Everyone knew he had been the first to break and the main cause of church collapse that day. He still woke with the sense memory of a quiet innocent girl's cunt clenched around him while she sobbed and the congregation watched. The guilt was real. So was the way his cock thickened when he remembered the power of taking her under the cross.

The church never recovered its old purity. Some left. Some stayed and grew harder. Persistent stains remained on the red carpet as memories of how permanent sins remained in their souls. The cross still hung above the altar. No one looked at it the same way.

Hannah was the young woman Elias had dragged onto the red carpet and taken by force. She gave birth in early summer to a healthy boy whose skin was a deep, unmistakable brown. Elias was pale. The child could not have been his. At least six other men had used and cum in her after he finished, on the carpet, against the wall, across the altar steps. She never tried to learn which one had planted the seed. Ending the pregnancy would have meant breaking God's law, and she would not do that.

A second compulsion moved into her in the months that followed. It had not existed before the church. It kept her awake in the dark. Any soft touch would leave her cold. Only the memory of being held down, stretched, filled while she screamed still made her cunt tighten and drip. The contradiction felt like blasphemy and oxygen at the same time.

The containment pill failed her the week she ovulated. She fantasized it was God's will she must seek to get pregnant again. Her mind mixed her religious past with her high sexual drive as if she was on a sexual crusade guided by the Holy Spirit itself. Inside her it was her craving, her hungry body that was demanding it. Therapy would not help, as she wouldn't listen.

She found herself driving toward the outskirts of Las Vegas with hunger for cum in her mouth. The place was a windowless warehouse at the end of an unmarked road. Cash only. Fifty dollars for women, two hundred for men. There was a sign that clearly stated that entering the place would entitle them full image and video rights. Everything inside could be recorded and sold. Participants would choose a hard limit (one hour, four, or six). When the clock ended, staff in sealed suits extracted them. Permanent injury was the single remaining rule for being banned.

Hannah paid, signed the tablet, and selected the four-hour Black Room. Her legs were trembling both in anticipation and anxiety.

She wore some clothes she specially bought to be shredded, stained, discarded. She was fitted with a soft tracking collar, it included a heartbeat sensor at her neck and a microphone. Then she walked through a lightproof antechamber. The door got sealed behind her with a magnetic thud. Her heart was going fast, her cunt was already leaking. Darkness was total. Sound became the only map, breathing, the soft sound of bare feet, the wet shift of bodies already moving somewhere ahead. She stood still, old prayers rising and dying in her throat.

A hand closed on her wrist. Another found her hip. She was turned and pressed against a wall that smelled of sweat, bleach, and cum. A cock shoved between her thighs, missed, shoved again, and sank into her in one continuous thrust. The stretch forced a raw sound out of her. More hands arrived. Someone lifted her leg. A second cock forced its way into her ass with no preparation. The burn of the sudden invasion ripped a scream out of her lungs. In the absolute dark she could not see faces. She could only feel the rhythm, the weight, the heat of strangers using her the way the church had been used that night. The old religious shame flared once and then drowned under the same filthy, necessary heat that had lived between her legs since the red carpet. She was murmuring prayers like a mantra as good as she could, only interrupted by her sudden moans and shrieks as he got fucked. Then she felt the man fucking her pussy groaning and trembling. She knew what was coming, biting her lower lip as she felt his warm cum invade her cunt in total darkness.

When the first men finished, others took their places. Her pussy was slapped, her face and tits too. She lost count, never complaining. At some point she was on the floor. Cooling cum streaked her stomach and breasts. Someone lifted her hips and started again. The tracking collar logged every spike in her pulse. Beyond the walls, worldwide paying spectators watched the night-vision feeds.

Her four hours ended with the sudden glare of red safety lights and gloved hands pulling bodies off her. Staff checked for permanent damage and left her in a recovery bay with water and a thin blanket. She sat under the fluorescents, thighs slick, the familiar hollow ache already returning, and understood she would come back.

Three months later she was pregnant again.

She did not know the father's name. She did not know his face. The containment pill had failed her at ovulation and the Black Room had done the rest. The second child would be born into the same rewritten world as the first.

All across the planet the same damage repeated in millions of private variations.

Some women emerged with the shame burned clean out of them. They took what they wanted when they wanted it, often without asking. Courtship became a fossil word. Others found their arousal permanently soldered to violence. They needed the struggle. They needed to be overpowered. Without the fight, orgasm simply refused to arrive.

Many men lived with the clear memory of pinning someone down and finishing inside them while the other person sobbed or begged. Some drank until the memories blurred. Others felt a cold, private recognition, as if a door inside them had been kicked open and could never be closed again. New underground places opened to contain the hunger. You could find locked rooms, private lists, warehouses on the edges of cities where the performance of rape was the entire product, available for both sides. The line between compulsion and preference dissolved until most people stopped pretending the line had ever been real.

The birth-rate crisis was over. Pregnancy numbers had done exactly what the architects of Agent 7-Rho had designed them to do. From a purely demographic standpoint the experiment was a complete success.

No one celebrated.

Children conceived during the outbreak grew up in a world that no longer bothered to hide what sex had become. Their parents spoke of the Halloween epidemic the way earlier generations spoke of Covid or other plagues. Something fundamental in the human animal had been rewritten, and the rewrite had stuck.

The mind could be altered by the body.

And once altered, it did not forget.

Human sexuality did not return to what it had been before that Halloween night.

It never would.

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-- DEGE