In this descent into pure filth, eighteen year old Jesus, an ugly, weed smoking outcast, decides to lose his virginity with vicious intent. At the Nazareth market, he spots an attractive woman and rapes her ass, claiming it’s safe since she won’t get pregnant. Months later, she’s pregnant, and Jesus lures her to the woods for another brutal rape. During the assault, his mother Mary watches from the bushes, becoming his next target as Jesus rapes her too. This third person tale delivers raw, unrelenting sex in Nazareth’s dusty heart. For the most depraved minds only.
The marketplace of Nazareth buzzed with the clamor of merchants shouting over one another, their voices mingling with the bleating of goats and the stench of rotting fruit. Dust clung to everything, kicked up by sandaled feet trudging through the dirt. Jesus, freshly eighteen, weaved through the chaos, a lanky figure with a slouch that screamed indifference. He was ugly—his face a mess of acne scars and crooked teeth, his greasy hair falling into bloodshot eyes. A joint hung lazily from his lips, the acrid smoke curling around him as he exhaled. People avoided him, muttering under their breath about the weed-smoking storyteller who’d been a village outcast since he was a kid. They called him a bastard, the son of Mary, that donkey-fucking tramp, and Joseph, the carpenter who’d vanished years ago. Jesus didn’t care. He had his weed, his stories, and a growing itch he couldn’t scratch with his own hand anymore.
He’d woken up that morning with a fire in his gut, a primal urge that had been building for weeks. Virginity was a chain he was ready to break, and he wasn’t about to wait for some willing girl to stumble into his lap. As he shuffled past a stall piled high with figs, his gaze snagged on a woman. She was young, maybe twenty, with curves that strained against her robe and dark hair spilling down her back. Her ass swayed as she argued with a vendor over the price of olives, oblivious to the predator sizing her up. Jesus licked his cracked lips, the joint dropping to the ground as he stamped it out. This was it.
He moved fast, closing the distance in a few strides. His hand clamped around her arm, fingers digging into soft flesh. “Hey, bitch,” he rasped, his voice rough from smoke. “You’re with me now.” She yelped, twisting to free herself, but Jesus tightened his grip and yanked her toward an alley wedged between two mud-brick houses. The market’s din swallowed her protests as he shoved her against a wall, her cheek scraping the rough stone.
“Don’t scream,” he warned, his breath hot and sour against her ear. She whimpered, her hands clawing uselessly at the wall, but Jesus was already tugging her robe up, exposing her bare ass. He spat into his palm, smearing it over his cock—already hard and throbbing—before lining himself up. “It’s okay,” he muttered, half to her, half to himself. “It’s your ass, so you won’t get pregnant.” With that, he rammed into her, forcing his way past the tight resistance. She screamed, a sharp, muffled sound lost in the alley’s shadows, but Jesus didn’t stop. He thrust hard, his hips slamming against her, each movement a brutal claim.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips to hold her steady. The woman sobbed, her body trembling under the assault, but Jesus was too far gone to care. It was his first time, and it felt like power—like he was finally taking something for himself. The slap of skin on skin echoed off the walls, her cries fading into broken gasps as he pounded into her. He didn’t last long, the sensation overwhelming him. With a guttural grunt, he came, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her ass. He pulled out, wiping himself on her torn robe, and shoved her to the ground. “Good ride, slut,” he sneered, then turned and swaggered back into the market, leaving her crumpled and weeping in the dirt.
Months rolled by, and Jesus slipped back into his routine. He’d sprawl under a tree with a joint, spinning tales of gods and miracles to anyone too drunk or bored to walk away. The memory of the alley lingered, though—a dirty little thrill he’d revisit when he jerked off at night. Life in Nazareth droned on, unchanged, until one sweltering afternoon when he spotted her again. She was trudging through the village, her belly swollen under her robe, her face gaunt and pale. Pregnant. Jesus’s brow furrowed. From her ass? That didn’t add up, but logic wasn’t his concern. The sight of her—vulnerable, marked by him—stoked that dark hunger again.
He tracked her from a distance, keeping to the shadows as she left the village and headed toward the woods. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the scrubby landscape. When she reached a clearing, far from any prying eyes, he struck. Lunging from behind, he grabbed her hair and yanked her off her feet, dragging her deeper into the trees. She screamed, flailing, but the thick foliage muffled the sound. “Thought you could escape me, huh?” he snarled, throwing her to the ground. She tried to crawl away, her swollen belly slowing her, but Jesus pinned her down, his knees digging into her thighs.
“You’re mine, bitch,” he said, tearing her robe open. Her pregnant body spilled out—round belly, heavy breasts leaking milk. The sight drove him wild. He spread her legs, his cock springing free as he shoved it into her cunt with a single, savage thrust. She cried out, her hands scrabbling in the dirt, but Jesus was relentless. “You like that, you pregnant whore?” he taunted, his hips slamming into her, each thrust shaking her swollen frame. Her sobs grew ragged, her strength draining, but he didn’t let up. He grabbed her breasts, squeezing until milk dribbled over his fingers, smearing it across her skin with a cruel laugh. “Look at you, a fucking mess.”
The woods were silent save for the wet slap of flesh and her weakening cries. Jesus lost himself in the rhythm, his cock driving deeper, harder, punishing her for carrying his child—or someone’s. He didn’t care whose it was. She was his to break. Her body clenched around him, involuntary spasms that only spurred him on. “Bet you’ve been craving this,” he hissed, his breath hot against her neck. She didn’t answer, her voice reduced to a pitiful whine, but it didn’t matter. He was king here, taking what he wanted, and she was nothing.
Unseen in the bushes, Mary watched. She’d been foraging for herbs when the screams drew her, and now she stood frozen, her heart pounding as she saw her son raping the pregnant woman. Jesus, her boy, eighteen and feral, his sweat-slicked body moving with a brutal grace. His cock plunged in and out, relentless, and Mary’s breath hitched. She’d fucked donkeys for years, a secret shame born of loneliness after Joseph left, but this was different. This was her flesh and blood, and something twisted inside her—revulsion warring with a sick, undeniable heat.
Jesus sensed the movement, his head whipping around mid-thrust. “Who’s there?” he barked, his cock still buried deep. Mary stepped forward, her robe clinging to her curves, her face flushed with a mix of horror and something else. “It’s me, Jesus,” she said, her voice shaking. “I saw it all.”
He stared at her, the woman beneath him forgotten. Then a slow, wicked grin split his face. “Like the show, Mom?” he asked, pulling out and standing, his cock glistening and hard. Mary’s eyes darted to it, her pulse racing. “I… I don’t know,” she whispered, but her body betrayed her, nipples peaking under her robe.
Jesus didn’t hesitate. He crossed the distance in two strides, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close. “You’ve been fucking donkeys, haven’t you?” he growled, his hand sliding down to squeeze her ass. Mary nodded, a weak, shameful admission. “Then you’ll love this,” he said, spinning her around and bending her over a fallen log. He hiked up her robe, exposing her bare flesh, and spat on his hand, slicking his cock.
“Jesus, wait—” she started, but he silenced her with a stinging slap to her ass. “Shut up, Mom,” he snapped. “You’re a slut. Time you took a real cock.” He slammed into her, his cock filling her cunt in one vicious thrust. Mary screamed, her hands gripping the log, but Jesus didn’t hold back. He fucked her hard, his hips pistoning, driving her face into the bark with every thrust.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, his fingers bruising her hips. Mary’s cries morphed into moans, her body responding despite the wrongness. Donkeys had been rough, but this—her son’s cock—was something else. It stretched her, owned her, hit depths she’d never felt. “You love it, don’t you?” he sneered, reaching around to grab her swinging tits, pinching her nipples until she gasped. “Been waiting for this, you filthy bitch.”
Mary’s mind reeled, shame and pleasure crashing together. The pregnant woman watched from the ground, her eyes wide with trauma, but Mary couldn’t stop. Jesus’s cock was relentless, pounding into her, building a pressure she couldn’t fight. “Fuck, Mom, you’re gonna make me cum,” he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic. She felt it too, her cunt tightening, and with a final, brutal slam, they came together—Jesus spilling deep inside her, Mary shuddering through a climax that left her gasping.
They collapsed, panting, sweat-soaked and spent. Jesus pulled out, wiping himself on her robe, and lit another joint. “Family business, huh?” he said with a smirk, exhaling smoke. Mary lay there, trembling, her mind a tangle of guilt and ecstasy. She’d been raped by her son, and she’d loved it. The pregnant woman whimpered nearby, abandoned in the dirt, but neither cared.
Jesus walked off, joint in hand, leaving the two women broken in his wake. Nazareth would never recover from its savior.