Disciplined footsteps echoed fast through the cloister—pure, strict, radiating authority, devotion, and unbreakable purity. A woman of command approached. It was Mother Agnes, one of Sancthorn's main leaders. Around 50 years old. She was one of the purest soul in entire Sancthorn.
But her body screaming something else, pure MILF perfection!!!. Massive, heavy tits sagging just right under her black habit, wide child-bearing hips that could crush a man, thick ass cheeks straining the fabric like they begged for spanking. Decades of discipline couldn't hide those swollen nipples poking through, that mature pussy mound camel-toeing her robe, thighs so meaty they rubbed with every step. A walking fuck-machine who didn't know her own power.**
The morning bells had only just faded when she stepped into the north cloister, her steps echoing sharply against the marble floor. She moved like a blade—straight-backed, carved from obedience, wrapped in a heavy black habit that whispered with every decisive step. The faint torchlight caught the edges of her veil, outlining her silhouette like a figure carved into stained glass.
**Mother Agnes was not a woman one approached casually. She carried herself with the severity of winter and the authority of someone who had buried too many of her gentler impulses long ago. But beneath that iron control—those enormous MILF tits heaved with every breath, fat ass flexing powerfully, making the air thick with unknowing sex.**
Her jaw was set.
Her eyes were focused.
And her pace was too quick—as if urgency pulled her forward by an invisible chain.
She pushed the chapel door open.
Inside, Elizabeth was still in her nightgown, standing near the washing basin, her hair unbraided, skin soft from sleep—an image so rare that Agnes froze for a heartbeat.
Then her voice cut through the quiet like cold water.
"Elizabeth."
Elizabeth startled, turning around. "M-Mother Agnes? You… you came yourself? You should've sent a sister to call me."
"That would have wasted time." Agnes closed the distance in three purposeful strides. "And Father Augustine asked for you urgently."
Elizabeth blinked, brows drawing together. "Urgently? Why? Did something happen in the archives again? Or with the novices?"
"I don't know." Agnes' reply was quick—too quick for her usual discipline. "He only said to bring you. Immediately."
One of the younger sisters rushed forward, fumbling to help Elizabeth dress, but Agnes abruptly lifted an arm and pushed the sister aside with a single firm gesture.
"I will do it."
Her tone left no room for discussion.
The young sister bowed her head and slipped away.
**Agnes stepped closer—dangerously close. Her massive MILF presence overwhelmed: heavy tits nearly brushing Elizabeth's shoulder, hot breath washing her neck, thick thighs pressing forward. She snatched Elizabeth's habit with rough urgency, yanking it over her head—fabric scraping across swollen nipples that poked visibly through the coarse weave.**
**Her callused hands gripped Elizabeth's bare shoulders, shoving thick arms through sleeves brutally fast. Rough palms dragged down her sides, fingers digging into soft waist flesh, yanking laces tight—squeezing those massive tits upward until they strained and overflowed the neckline, nipples diamond-hard and throbbing through fabric like forbidden beacons.**
**Elizabeth stood perfectly still, unaware her untouched virgin pussy clenched from the friction of Agnes' knee wedging between her thick thighs. Agnes' hot MILF hip ground forward unconsciously while tying veil cords. Her untouched fat ass cheeks flexed innocently as Agnes' strong hands slapped the habit smooth over perfect roundness, palms lingering a beat too long.**
**Agnes fastened the final clasp at Elizabeth's waist, knuckles brushing the heat radiating from her dripping cunt mound. She stepped back only half a step—their bodies humming with tension only the demon would recognize.**
"Come. We cannot keep him waiting."
They exited the chapel.
The corridor outside was still dim, only lit by torches burning with a low orange glow. The long hall stretched endlessly before them, and the faint morning frost on the windows painted the air with a pale shimmer.
Agnes walked ahead, but her pace slowed just enough for Elizabeth to walk beside her—an unusual gesture of equality reserved only for serious matters.
As they moved deeper into the cathedral complex, silence wrapped around them.
Their footsteps echoed.
The cold stone radiated through their sandals.
And every shadow seemed to watch.
Finally, the great oak door of Father Augustine's office emerged at the end of the hallway.
Tall.
Dark.
Carved with ancient scripture.
Two guardians stood outside, tense and stiff, as if a storm had already passed through the room behind them.
Agnes placed a hand on Elizabeth's lower back—guiding her forward gently but firmly.
"This is as far as I go," she whispered.
For the first time that morning, her stern mask cracked—revealing the faintest flicker of worry.
"Be careful, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth swallowed. "I… will."
And the great door creaked open.
***
Father Augustine's office was unlike any other chamber in the Sancthorn.
It was vast, but not in a way that sought to intimidate—rather, its size carried the weight of centuries. Sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, scattering soft gold across shelves lined with ancient tomes, scrolls sealed in wax, and relics preserved in glass. Every object had its precise place, as if even dust feared to settle where it didn't belong.
The room smelled faintly of parchment, incense, and pinewood—the scent of quiet authority.
Two great banners hung behind the desk, embroidered with the emblem of the Holy Truth. Between them sat Father Augustine's chair: old oak, polished smooth by decades of devotion.
Father Augustine himself stood next to it as Elizabeth entered, hands clasped behind his back.
He was unmistakable.
A man in his later years—gray hair brushed neatly back, beard trimmed, eyes bright with intelligence and warmth. There was a softness to him, the kind that came from years of guiding, teaching, comforting. Yet beneath that warmth, his presence radiated something deeper:
Strength.
Authority.
A long lifetime of leadership.
He was the only person in the Sancthorn who could smile and still make the entire room straighten in respect.
"Elizabeth," he greeted, voice gentle but carrying easily across the chamber. "Come in, child."
Elizabeth stepped forward and immediately bowed her head, hands folded before her in immaculate discipline.
"Father Augustine. You summoned me. I present myself to your service. Please… tell me your need, and I will fulfill it."
Her posture was flawless—spine straight, gaze lowered, sacred obedience carved into every movement.
Father Augustine chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"If every sister had your discipline, Elizabeth, I'd have retired years ago."
His tone was warm, almost playful, but carried the weight of someone who had watched her grow within these walls.
Elizabeth's lips tightened in a shy, modest line, but she did not relax her stance. "It is my duty, Father."
"Yes, yes," he waved a hand. "Your duty. Your devotion. Your eternal readiness to hurl yourself into the fire if the Sancthorn so much as asked for a spark."
He stepped closer, eyes kind.
"You can look at me, child. I am not the Holy Truth itself."
Elizabeth raised her gaze only slightly—enough to meet his eyes, not enough to lose her discipline.
"Good," he said. "Now. Let us speak of why you were called."
He moved to his desk and opened a letter sealed in blue wax. His expression shifted—still warm, but edged with something serious.
"A dear friend of mine," he began, "a man I trust more than most living souls… has sent someone to us."
Elizabeth straightened further. "A cleric? A scholar?"
"A boy," Augustine corrected.
Elizabeth blinked. "…A boy?"
"Yes. Young. Untrained. And yet"—his smile returned, thoughtful, almost nostalgic—"my friend insists that he shows… promise."
He paced slowly, hands folded behind him.
"He has asked that the Sancthorn take this boy in. That we shape him. Discipline him. Guide him. From this day forward, he will join our order."
Elizabeth bowed her head again. "If that is the will of the Sancthorn… I will obey."
"I knew you would." Augustine's eyes sparkled. "You always do."
She remained still, waiting patiently.
Augustine added, voice lowering:
"There is something… unusual about this one."
He didn't elaborate—not yet.
He simply watched her, studying the unwavering discipline in every line of her body.
"It is because of that," he finally said, "that I want you to meet him first."
Elizabeth's breath caught—but only faintly, almost invisible unless one knew her well.
"Me, Father?"
"Yes." Augustine smiled softly. "You have a steadiness the others do not. A clarity of spirit. If anything is amiss with this boy, you will see it before anyone."
He nodded toward the door behind his desk—the one that led to the inner courtyard.
"He is waiting there."
Elizabeth lowered her head once more. "I will not fail you, Father Augustine."
"I know," he replied warmly. "That's why I chose you."
Father Augustine's voice carried calmly across the chamber, warm yet edged with the unmistakable authority that came from leading Sancthorn for decades.
"Mother Agnes," he called gently, "send the boy in."
Agnes bowed, turned sharply, and opened the door.
The tension entered first.
A strange, almost invisible pulse pressed into the room—soft but undeniable, like the faint shift of pressure before a storm breaks. Elizabeth felt it instantly. A low shiver crawled up her spine. Her breath hitched for a moment, barely visible behind her stern posture.
Then Elias stepped inside.
Elizabeth suddenly feels that "heavy tension"
Father Augustine pauses mid-sentence for a split second
Mother Agnes frowns slightly, as if sensing something off
But Elias himself acts totally shy and harmless.
He looked nothing like the presence she had felt.
He was… small.
Thin shoulders, narrow frame, almost fragile.
His blonde hair was messy, dampened from the mountain winds.
His round glasses sat crookedly on his nose.
His clothes were torn, dirty from the path, hanging awkwardly on him.
And the way he held himself—head lowered, hands twisting nervously at the hem of his robe—gave the clear impression of a frightened, shy boy who looked younger than his age.
Eighteen? Elizabeth blinked once, controlled and quiet.
He appeared no older than fifteen.
Yet that strange weight in the air only grew stronger the closer he stepped.
She fought it silently, keeping her stance disciplined, hands clasped firmly behind her back. Her heartbeat, however, refused discipline. It pounded harder, louder, as though warning her of something she could not yet see.
Father Augustine rested both hands on his desk and smiled warmly.
"Elias," he said gently, "come closer, child."
The boy shuffled forward, eyes lifting only for a moment—and Elizabeth felt something sharp and cold brush across her chest. A flicker. A whisper. Something ancient. Something buried.
Then it vanished.
Elias stopped beside Mother Agnes, trembling.
Father Augustine leaned back in his chair.
His voice softened with both pride and heaviness.
"This," he began, speaking to Elizabeth and Agnes, "is Elias. Eighteen years old. A quiet boy, perhaps gentler than most—but do not let his appearance mislead you."
He lifted a letter from the desk and tapped it lightly.
"He comes from Father Thimus himself."
The name alone carried weight. Thimus—one of the few leaders equal in authority to Augustine. A man known for strict discipline and an unmatched sense of spiritual instinct.
Elizabeth straightened further.
Agnes's brows tightened, curiosity flickering behind her strict composure.
Father Augustine continued, reading lines from the letter.
"Thimus found him abandoned as a child. Raised him. Protected him. And now…"
He looked up, eyes warm yet thoughtful.
"He believes Elias carries something hidden within him. Something worth guiding. Something worth… shaping."
Elias lowered his head again, cheeks coloring with embarrassment or fear—Elizabeth couldn't tell which.
Agnes stepped forward, voice sharp with rule-bound duty.
"Father," she said firmly, "forgive me, but we have strict procedures. A new Seeker cannot be accepted in the middle of the year. There must be examinations, confirmations, and the proper ceremonial initiation. We cannot simply place him inside the order without protocol."
Her words were respectful but unyielding.
Father Augustine nodded patiently.
"I know, Mother Agnes. Truly, I do."
He folded the letter, tone taking on a gentle authority.
"But this is Thimus's request. And Thimus is as much my equal as my brother. If he sees potential in this boy… we must honor it."
Agnes inhaled deeply, understanding the weight of his words, then bowed her head.
"Yes, Father."
A quiet moment passed.
The storm outside rattled faintly against the tower windows.
Father Augustine rose from his seat slowly, his warm expression fading into a deep, solemn tone—his true authority spilling through.
He stepped around the desk and stood before Elias.
"Child," he said, voice dropping into ritual cadence, "from this moment forward, Sancthorn is your home. Your temple. Your school. Your purpose."
Elias looked up, eyes wide.
"You will eat here, sleep here, work here. You will learn discipline. You will obey the rules of this sanctuary. And above all—"
His voice darkened, reverent.
"—you will submit your heart, mind, and soul to the Holy Truth. Only then will it guide you."
The boy swallowed hard and nodded.
A tremor of fear.
A tremor of something else.
Father Augustine placed a hand on his shoulder.
"And from now on," he continued, turning toward Elizabeth, "you will be under the care and guidance of Sister Elizabeth."
Elizabeth's pulse throbbed once—heavy.
"She will teach you discipline, duty, scripture, history, purity, and sacrifice. She will train your mind and body until you are worthy to walk these halls as a true Seeker."
A sharp, unfamiliar tension curled in her chest.
She bowed her head in acceptance.
"As you command, Father."
Elias stared at her—quiet, fragile, eyes shimmering with uncertainty.
But beneath his timid appearance…
Beneath his trembling posture…
Elizabeth felt it again.
That strange, dark pressure.
Like a whisper calling her name from somewhere deep within him.
The air shifted. The flame of a candle flickered sideways.
A cold ripple swept across the floor between them.
Elizabeth's fingers twitched.
Her breathing slowed.
Father Augustine, unaware of the disturbance, smiled warmly.
"Welcome to Sancthorn, Elias."
As the candlelight trembled again, Elizabeth realized—
Nothing about this boy was ordinary.