He wanted blasphemy sex. He wanted me to hail Satan and curse God as we fucked. I may not be the most religious woman around. I worship at the house of cocaine, but it made me queasy to say what he wanted. If I didn’t deliver him a blasphemous hot time, he would have killed me. He made that very clear. My life depended on me telling him how much I love Satan. He gave me a cross and told me to fuck my whore pussy with it. Again, the thought of doing that made me uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as being dead. That would be something I couldn’t bounce back from. I spread my whore legs and I fucked my cunt like Linda Blair did in The Exorcist. I was bleeding from my pussy. I licked off my own pussy blood as I renounced God and begged for Satan to put a love brat inside my belly. I talked about wanting to have Satan’s spawn. My captor was aroused. His cock was hard listening to my blasphemous mouth. I would be spared snuff sex if I kept it up. I thought of all the horror movies I have seen in my life. I thought of all the peril I have been in and no higher power came to my aid, like now. This guy snatched me off the street. He was high as fuck and wanted to party. I thought he had coke, so I went begrudgingly. He chained me up to a beam in an abandoned warehouse. He yelled and screamed at me for hours. Made me hail Satan and sing blasphemous songs. I never got any coke either. I got shot up with heroin. I woke up in my own puke this morning with a bloody cross in my ass and a pentagram carved into my forehead. Being a slave to coke is dangerous.
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