Another moan. Louder. The farmer's eyes widened.
"The divine energy," an older woman in line, who had been listening from outside, explained to her neighbor. "It makes her groan. The strain of channeling so much holy power."
"Poor priestess," the neighbor murmured. "Such agony."
"Mercy," someone in the tent whispered. "Priestess, have mercy on yourself. Rest."
"I am fine," Myra said. Her voice was a lie. Her body, impaled on twelve inches, was singing a different truth. "Please. Hold out your hand. I will bless you."
The line continued.
By noon, Myra had healed ninety-three people. She had orgasmed six times. Her pussy, stretched and raw, was filled with three loads of cum that had nowhere to go, trapped by Viktor's shaft plugging her entrance.
Her panties, pulled aside since morning, were destroyed. The cotton, soaked with cum and arousal and squirt, was a rag.
