October 6, 2022. Sydney, Australia.
My name is Richard O'Reilly, although my friends and family call me Rick O'Reilly. I am 18 years old and a senior in high school. That day I was sitting in a giant room with gleaming white walls, so neat they almost reflected my sweaty face. All around me were other people, all sitting in neat rows, legs crossed and hands fidgeting.
It wasn't just any church; it was a private, exclusive facility, where only a select few could enter. In front of me stood an imposing statue of Jesus Christ on an altar decorated with gilt and marble, his stern gaze fixed on us as if he knew the sins we were hiding under our clothes. To one side of the altar was a dark wooden door, and suddenly, that door opened with a creak that echoed in the silence.
A white man appeared, about fifty years old, with black hair streaked with gray hair combed back as if the wind had tamed it. His face was clean-shaven, and high spectacles rested on his sharp nose. He wore an impeccable black suit that fit his lean but firm body. He walked up the aisle with confident strides, and all eyes turned to him.
That was my father, Adam O'Reilly, the leader of this place: a Spiritual Community called "The Youth of Tomorrow," the largest Christian sect in Sydney, Australia. When he stood in front of us, his presence filled the room like a silent sermon, and I swallowed hard, knowing what was coming.
My father began to speak in that deep voice that always got on my nerves. "Thank you all for coming, brothers and children of God," he said, adjusting his glasses as he looked at us one by one. "Today I have to talk to you about something urgent, something that threatens our faith and the future of our young people."
I already knew what the topic was about, but still my heart leapt when he pulled a cloth bag from his jacket. From it he extracted a shiny box, holding it up for all to see. It was the cover of a video game, and not just any shit: in the image, an Australian Aboriginal woman, naked and sweaty, was being brutally fucked by a group of white settlers with erect, veiny cocks, their muscular bodies ramming her mercilessly. Her tits bounced wildly, and her open mouth let out a muted scream of pleasure and pain. In neon blue letters, the title read: Sacred Arena Online.
"It's a VRMMORPG," my father continued, his voice quivering with indignation as he brandished the box like a grenade. "Produced by an underground video game company, only available in Australia. This game is an abomination, a digital Sodom and Gomorrah corrupting our youth." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink into us.
"There are no limits here: sexual assaults, infidelities, murders. Women being raped by hordes of men, their pussies stretched and dripping with semen as they scream for more. Men killing each other with axes and swords, blood splattering on screens as they fuck virtual slaves. All this is against our faith, against the Lord our God."
I couldn't take my eyes off the cover. That aborigine had huge tits, dark and shiny, with rock-hard nipples. The colonizers were penetrating her from all sides: a thick cock in her mouth, another in her hairy pussy, and one more working its way between her fleshy buttocks. My crotch tightened under my pants, and I had to cross my legs so no one would notice my erection.
My father kept talking, his voice rising in pitch. "This game is an evil influence, a tool of the devil to pervert our Youth of Tomorrow. We gather here, brothers and sisters, to fight this filth. We will put all our strength into getting the government to ban it, so that this noxious and harmful filth will be replaced by the sacred word of the Bible."
The silence was broken by a roar of applause. Everyone stood up, shouting "Amen!" and raising their hands to the sky. I clapped too, more out of reflex than conviction, because my mind was still caught up in that image: the aborigine's soaked pussy dripping white semen as a colonizer squeezed her tits with brute hands.
The meeting ended, and people began to disperse, their voices buzzing like devout bees. My father was chatting with his rich friends, all in suits and reeking of expensive perfume, while my mother Debbie hovered beside him with a fake smile.
I approached, and my father presented me as if I were a trophy: "This is Rick, my son. He will be my successor." I acted polite, as always, with a stiff bow and a "pleased" that came out of reflex, though inside I wanted to scream that this was not the future I wanted. I was trapped, forced to nod like a dummy.
With that said, my father patted his friends on the back goodbye, and we got in the car: him behind the wheel, my mother next to me in the passenger seat, and me in the back, looking out the window. As I was driving, my father gave me his speech: "Rick, I'm getting old. You have to take my place. I won't stop until that filthy game, Sacred Arena Online, is wiped off the map."
I nodded a muffled "yes, Dad," but my mind was elsewhere. My mother turned to me, her voice soft but firm, "Concentrate on your studies, Rick. When you're done, you'll study politics, like your father and grandfather did." I glanced sideways at her, and fuck, I couldn't help it: her cleavage was so open that her huge tits almost popped out of her blouse. They were two ripe melons, white and creamy, with the areolas peeking just barely over the edge of the fabric.
My cock jumped in my pants, and I mentally scolded myself, "No, no, no, no, it's my mother. It's not Christian to have impure thoughts." But it was too late; my head imagined her dressed like that aborigine on the cover, with my cock ramming her mercilessly.
We got home, and I went straight upstairs to my room, mumbling a "I'm not hungry" to my parents. I closed the door, threw myself on the bed and pulled down my pants as if my life depended on it. I grabbed my hard cock and started jerking off, imagining my mother naked, her tits bouncing as I fucked her like a savage.
In my mind, she moaned like a whore, "Rick, harder!" as her pussy squirted and my balls slapped against her fat ass. I cum fast, a thick stream shooting out and, shit, splattering the tiny crucifix on my desk. I stared at the semen dripping onto the cross, gasping, and said to myself, "What's wrong with me? I'm sick. Everybody sees me as a pure boy, but I'm a filthy pervert."
The next morning I woke up with the sun beating down on my face. I got up, grabbed my bike and pedaled to the high school, an elite Christian school with a tuition of 3 thousand Australian dollars a month, one of the most expensive in the world. My aunt, my mother's sister, was the principal, a strict woman who seemed to smell sin for miles.
I parked my bike and walked into my classroom, a room full of boys and girls in demure uniforms: long skirts for them, gray pants for us, no flesh in sight. I sat at the last desk by the window, the perfect place to unwind. Everyone was already there when Father William, a skinny, hawk-faced priest, came in.
"My children," he said in a solemn voice, "I present to you a new pupil. Her name is Chelsea Hamlet, she comes from Melbourne." The door opened, and in she walked. Chelsea was a fucking vision: angel face, long black hair like a waterfall, blue eyes that cut the air, and a body that didn't fit the uniform.
She was fat, yes, but in a way that made you salivate: huge tits that stretched the shirt to almost bursting, with hard nipples poking out like they wanted to escape, and wide hips that made the skirt look like a joke. Everyone looked at her, some with contempt, others with ill-concealed lust.
The priest didn't care what she looked like and dropped the bombshell: "She's a woodcock." The air instantly grew rarefied and everyone glared at her with hatred; the lust was gone. In this school, the rich hated the poor, those who lived off "their taxes." Chelsea didn't react, her face expressionless, as if she were on another planet.
Father William pointed to my desk, "Sit next to Rick." She walked toward me, her tits swaying with each step, and sat down. She looked at me for a second, her eyes cold and distant, before looking down at the desk. I swallowed spit, feeling my cock harden again under the uniform. "Shit," I thought, "this is going to be a problem."