How stepbro and stepsis shoot a new fuck

How stepbro and stepsis shoot a new fuck Only two souls breathed in that silent chamber: Sister Roxy, stripped of everything but faith — and Priestess Verena, whose hands trembled despite decades of ritual calm. “This has never been done. She did not scream. She had prepared the core, anointed it, warmed it with sacred oils to ease the passage. Verena whispered prayers as she worked — half to comfort Roxy, half to steel herself. No tools. They beat her. The belt muffled it only slightly as the edges of the capsule stretched her farther than she thought possible. Her body was already tense. They threw her into a cell of rot and rust, where Brother-Sergeant Caelen hung in chains. “You carried it, child.”

Roxy said nothing. No tools. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, where war consumes entire systems and faith is often the only armor left, there are souls who embody the Imperium’s most harrowing truths. His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. “Bite. The capsule slid in by degrees. “You carried the future,” he said. Roxy lay still, drenched in sweat, her face contorted in silent pain. As long as the core reaches him.”

Verena offered her a leather belt — a strip of old, cracked ecclesiarch hide. He only looked at her — truly looked — and understood what she had done. Her journey is one of devotion beyond pride, of suffering beyond honor. It was a tool. It was done. Caelen, grim and silent, began the extraction.