It was the adventure of Pelle's life, his aunts mouth. He felt it spellbind him, and it was a little against his will at first, like any itch is, and then, when it's tended to, the pleasure is partially an addiction, though it never felt like it from the start. He didn't know how her distress and unwillingness could spice it for him, but he felt a hundred times himself when her misery showed in her eyes, and it mixed before him with her obvious blush.<br/><br/>When she experienced her cramps, the demon let the boy think the mere presence of their cock in her mouth was enough to make her feel that way - it wasn't so wrong, after all, since the demon was renewing her forgotten places for itself - and that made Pelle feel prideful. Her voice through the base of it, her hand low, her other hand around his sensitive sack. How had she learned all this? The Demon called her a whore for it, and Pelle thought he loved the whore side of Hillie. It was excruciating to release, it damn near destroyed the innocent boy to feel his nerves pulled out of him in the pretties expulsion he'd ever been the victim of.<br/><br/>It hurt him to see her so beautiful. Aunt Mary, who'd read to him and listen to his complaints, was now painted in his pungent lines, more than he'd ever produced, and it fit her so well. The demon had loved to drop the cross on her, and to see her pick it up, still sticky unless she sucked it clean, to wear while she shaved the floor of thick, curdled leavings. It could smell Hillie's blood with Pelle's nostrils, and had watched when Sylvia touched herself to her family becoming closer in the unholiest of ways. This family was imploding, and it was a miraculous spectacle.<br/><br/>Pelle, as himself completely, cried onto his mother, and she rocked him. She didn't say the things she usually did, and he felt a slight distance in her. Mother seemed tense. When he was done hiccuping from the violation he'd administered himself, Sylvia stood up with some dark intent. He looked at her, and she took his hand. It was almost like when he'd been small, and mother had caught him eating the pudding with his hands before it was set. He doubted she would lock him in the attic, now. Still he followed, boy cock still out, when she lead him. Why was he excited? Why was mom undoing her blouse with the same shamed blush as Hillie when her cheeks were bulged?<br/><br/>Lena had a story for Hillie when she came back to her room. The young woman had waited for her, considering Mary something of a mentor. A confession, with a book in her lap. She'd collected things over the years, about this place. And she'd had such a strange feeling since Father Daniel had made her pray without knowing for what. She thought it had something to do with the files she'd been keeping. All of this spilled out her mouth as soon as she saw sister Hildegard. Lena wasn't usually so chatty. Hillie would remember her being content with being quietly enticing. Sometimes, it would seem, she did it on purpose. That's why she was said to leave the faith soon, on her own.<br/><br/>The pages told the story of the remains. Lena had found old records, and here they were. It was mostly the dairy of an old nun, who was known to chase away the youngsters from the remains until her back wouldn't allow it anymore. She still lived in town, in a house that was falling apart, because she paid a groundskeeper to chase the youth for her with the last of her pension from what little work she'd done after her time at church.<br/><br/>"S-sister Hildegard." Lena said, and a single tear wet the paper in the book she presented to Hillie. "Why am I thinking this? Why did I feel the urge to show you?" and when Hillie looked, she'd see there was blood down Lena's legs, too.