Full of Grace

Mark snapped his fist into her forehead with a quick jerk of his elbow and pounced on her back as she fell over the slight wooden chair at the foot of her bed, wrapping his palm around her mouth as he ripped her bonnet off with his free hand. "Nobody disrespects us, you hear?"

She nodded as best she could through the strength of his fingers, the one-inch gash between her eyes spilling rivulets of blood into each.

"Stigmata," said Mark. "Dudes, fucking hold her arms."

Donte and Delonte each grabbed one of her arms. Mark gripped the collar of her tunic, and with a one-handed tug, tore it from her 60 year-old body, the cotton's scream almost as loud as her moaning. Her spine showed through the translucent skin covering her back, which was spotted with overgrown moles, some of which sprouted stiff gray and black hairs.

Mark traced her bumpy, creaky spinal column with one extended forefinger. Until he got to her ass, where he separated her mushy, pocked buttocks at the crack and glared at a criss-crossed mishmash of tiny scabs from either wiping too hard or not at all. With the nail of his middle finger, he drew an upside down red star inside a slimy circle of darkening goo by clipping each shell of dried blood from around her browned hole, at which she began to wriggle and groan loudly, repeating through her struggling breaths, "I forgive you."

Mark peeled her knee-high stockings from her varicosed, flabby legs, balled them up and gave them to his friends. "Shut her up," he said. And they pushed the tight little spheres of satin deep into her drooling mouth. Using the tips of his fingers as tiny loofah sponges, Mark smeared her asshole slick with her own blood, then pushed his jeans and underwear down with one hand, his pre-cumming boner springing loose like a kangaroo from a boxing ring's corner, while he guided his taut 4 inches into her rectum with his other hand.

"I forgive you," her throat said through its tracheal membrane and sagging wattle.

"Forgive this," said Mark. And he came for the first time as close to her colonic sphincter as his genetics would allow. Quickly, he pulled out and put the head of his dick to her labia and lunged forward.

Snap!

"Fuck! She's dry as a bone! Fucking cunt almost broke it in half!" He spit twice into his hand and rubbed it into her vagina, then tried again. "Fuck, what does it take to get you wet, bitch?" Mark looked at Donte and Delonte, both of whom were trying with all their might to hold back their laughter. "Fucking turn her over," said Mark.

Once on her back, her legs splayed, the long, rigid white hairs covering her mons stared up at Mark, mocking him. He bent down and retrieved his razor from his pocket, and with a few quick flicks of his bony wrists, left her as bald as an infant, tiny crimson islands pooling in the creases of her groin. Mark leaned up and stuffed the hair he'd collected into her mouth, then buried his face between her legs with a deep breath. Two minutes of slurping and tonguing and he finally revealed her clit, drawing it deep into his mouth. Quickly, his sharp lower teeth met his sharper upper teeth through the wrinkled flesh and he swallowed it to the accompaninent of her loudest muffled "I forgive you" yet.

Mark, a red swath masking his dimples, rubbed his cock into the rivers of blood flowing in thick knots onto the floor below, then fell forward again, this time tearing her hymen with his weight and knuckly pelvis as he ground his hips against the back of her thighs and buttocks until he came a second time. At which he stood up and looked at Donte. "Give her your big stuff, dude."

And Donte obliged, going first to her anus, then her vagina, as they had agreed upon. Delonte followed, lasting longer than the other two put together, her breathing slowing and barely audible, save for a coughed, guttural "I forgive you" every now and then when Mark would slacken her rosary, which he'd chained around her neck. And tightened and loosened and tightened and loosened and tightened and loosened-

Delonte zipped up his jeans. Both her holes were torn top and bottom, undulating in and out, breathing on their own, gasping for air or more cock. Or offering forgiveness. Mark turned her over onto her stomach on the floor and unsheathed his razor. With herky-jerky curves of his hand, he traced a 3-dimensional cross on her back, its foot at the nape of her neck, its top gushing into her crack. He grabbed one of the ancient, unlit oil lamps from the nightstand, removed its glass, and poured its contents into the pumping crevices of his artwork.

He looked to Donte. "Dude. Matches."