In the stinking cesspool of Nazareth, Bill and Jesus, brothers forged in hate and perverse desire, rip into each other with savage, flesh splitting rape. Bill, the wild bastard spawn, and Jesus, the scarred sadist, spiral into a relentless nightmare of ass tearing assaults, gagging on piss and blood, their cocks turned into tools of mutual ruin. Whips flay skin, bones shatter, and cum mingles with gore as they degrade each other past the edge of madness, pissing in throats, fucking with jagged iron, and clawing flesh to shreds. When Mary staggers back into their festering den, her presence unleashes a final, stomach churning storm of brutality and violation, leaving corpses and a smoldering ruin behind.
Bill was the shadow to Jesus’s light, born two years after his brother in the dusty shithole of Nazareth. Where Jesus’s eyes burned with quiet hunger, Bill’s were feral, glinting with a malice that made even the goats skitter away. They called him the bastard son, whispers said Joseph wasn’t his father, that Mary had fucked some wandering merchant under a blood moon. Bill didn’t give a shit. He hated Jesus’s calm, hated his hands that shaped wood instead of breaking bones. At only eighteen Bill was a beast, broad, hairy, his cock thick and always half-hard, a walking threat. Jesus, 20, lean and scarred from some dark past, watched Bill with a mix of pity and something nastier—a sick, throbbing lust he couldn’t shake. They shared a cramped room in Joseph’s house, the air heavy with sweat and unspoken filth.
One night, Bill staggered in reeking of wine and blood, his knuckles raw from some brawl. Jesus sat carving a stool, shirtless, sweat gleaming on his chest. Bill’s gaze locked on him, a snarl curling his lips. “You fucking saint,” he spat, voice slurred. “Think you’re better than me?” Jesus didn’t look up. “Go to bed, Bill.” Bill lunged, slamming Jesus against the wall, the stool clattering to the dirt. “I’ll show you,” he growled, and ripped Jesus’s tunic down, exposing his ass. Jesus fought, fists flying, but Bill was stronger, pinning him face-first into the straw mattress. With a grunt, Bill spat into his hand, slicked his cock, and forced himself in.
Jesus screamed, the sound raw and animal, as Bill’s thick shaft tore into him. The pain was blinding—his ass stretched beyond reason, blood slicking the intrusion—but beneath it, a twisted spark flared, some fucked-up masochism he couldn’t kill. Bill pounded him, relentless, his hands clawing Jesus’s hips, leaving bruises. “Take it, you fuck,” Bill hissed, each thrust a punishment, a claim. Jesus’s cock hardened despite himself, the humiliation and agony twisting into a sick ecstasy. Bill laughed, a guttural sound, and yanked Jesus’s hair, forcing his head back. “You like it, don’t you, you pious shit?” He spat in Jesus’s face, the saliva dripping down his cheek, and fucked harder, his balls slapping against Jesus’s thighs. Jesus’s body betrayed him—he came, shuddering, his seed soaking the straw, shame burning hotter than the pain.
Bill didn’t stop. He rammed deeper, grunting like a beast, until he roared and spilled inside Jesus, hot and thick. He pulled out, leaving Jesus bleeding and trembling, and kicked him in the ribs. “That’s what you deserve,” Bill sneered, stumbling to his own mat to pass out. Jesus lay there, panting, his mind a storm of rage and lust. He hated Bill—but he hated himself more for wanting it.
The next night, Jesus waited. Bill staggered in, drunk again, his guard down. Jesus struck fast, a hammer blow to Bill’s skull sending him to his knees. Before Bill could recover, Jesus bound his wrists with rope, tight enough to cut, and shoved him face-down onto the floor. “My turn,” Jesus whispered, his voice cold, sadistic. He tore Bill’s clothes off, exposing his hairy, muscled ass. Bill thrashed, cursing—“You fucking cunt, I’ll kill you!”—but Jesus was relentless. He grabbed a wooden mallet handle, slicked it with oil, and rammed it into Bill’s hole. Bill howled, the sound echoing off the walls, as Jesus twisted it deeper, splitting him open. Blood ran, but Jesus didn’t care—he wanted Bill to feel every inch of his rage.
Dropping the mallet, Jesus mounted him, his cock rock-hard from the power. He thrust in, brutal and fast, each slam a punishment for the night before. Bill’s screams turned to sobs, his body shaking, but Jesus fed on it, his sadism unleashed. He gripped Bill’s throat, choking him, and spat into his mouth. “Swallow it, you piece of shit,” he snarled, and Bill gagged, humiliated beyond words. Jesus fucked him raw, his hips slamming, until he came with a guttural cry, filling Bill’s ass with his seed. He pulled out, leaving Bill a broken, bleeding mess, and kicked him in the face for good measure. “Now we’re even,” Jesus said, wiping his cock on Bill’s torn tunic.
It didn’t end there. Night after night, they raped each other, a vicious cycle of dominance and degradation. Bill would pin Jesus to the wall, fucking him until he bled, spitting in his wounds, beating him with fists and belt. Jesus would retaliate, chaining Bill to the workbench, ramming tools and his cock into him, whipping his back until it was a lattice of welts. They’d choke each other, claw at flesh, humiliate with words and acts—Bill pissing on Jesus’s face, Jesus forcing Bill to lick his boots clean. The sex was brutal, all pain and power, no tenderness. Jesus’s masochism craved Bill’s cruelty, his sadism reveled in Bill’s suffering. Bill’s rage fueled his assaults, his shame at losing to Jesus driving him to worse depravity. They’d cum in each other’s mouths, asses, on each other’s faces, every orgasm a victory and a defeat.
The house stank of blood, cum, and hate. Joseph was gone—dead or fled, they didn’t give a fuck—and the villagers whispered of demons in the carpenter’s home. Bill and Jesus were locked in their hell, fucking and fighting, two beasts tearing each other apart. Bill would grab Jesus by the throat, slamming him into the dirt, and rape him standing, his cock a battering ram, his fists pummeling Jesus’s chest until ribs cracked. Jesus would tie Bill spreadeagle, flogging his cock and balls until they swelled purple, then fuck him with a splintered plank, laughing as Bill screamed. They’d bite—teeth sinking into shoulders, thighs, drawing blood—each mark a trophy of their mutual ruin.
One night, Bill pinned Jesus to the floor, his knee on Jesus’s chest, and pissed straight into his mouth, forcing him to swallow or choke. Jesus gagged, retching, but his cock throbbed, and Bill fucked him then, using the piss as lube, a sick grin on his face. Jesus’s turn came at dawn—he strung Bill up by his wrists from the rafters, whipped his ass until it was raw meat, then fucked him with a rusted iron rod, the metal scraping Bill’s insides as he begged for mercy. Mercy never came. They were beyond it, lost in a spiral of rape and revenge that fed on itself like a starving dog.
Their bodies bore the scars—Bill’s back a crisscross of welts, Jesus’s thighs bruised and bitten, both their asses raw from the constant assault. Bill would wake Jesus with a punch, flip him over, and rape him dry, no spit, no oil, just skin tearing skin. Jesus would wait till Bill slept, tie his ankles to his wrists, and fuck him with a burning torch handle, the heat blistering Bill’s flesh as he shrieked. They’d laugh through the pain, taunting each other—“Harder, you weak fuck!”—their voices hoarse, their sanity fraying.
One dawn, as Bill lay bruised and Jesus nursed a split lip, the door creaked open. Mary stood there, older, her hair streaked gray, her eyes wide with horror. She’d been gone years—some said to Jerusalem, others to the desert—but now she was back, staring at her sons, their naked bodies marked with scars and filth. “What have you done?” she whispered, voice trembling. Bill laughed, a wet, broken sound. “Fucked each other to death, Mother. Want a taste?” Jesus said nothing, his shame a weight he couldn’t lift. Mary stepped closer, her gaze flickering between them—Bill’s sneer, Jesus’s silence. Then, something snapped. She grabbed a knife from the workbench, its blade rusted but sharp, and lunged at Bill.
“You’re no son of mine,” she hissed, slashing his chest. Bill roared, blood spraying, and tackled her. Jesus watched, frozen, as they wrestled—Bill pinning Mary, ripping her robe, his cock hardening despite the wound. “I’ll fuck you too,” Bill snarled, forcing her legs apart. Mary screamed, stabbing wildly, the knife sinking into Bill’s thigh. He howled, but didn’t stop, thrusting into her, raping his own mother as she clawed at him. Jesus snapped awake, grabbing Bill by the hair and yanking him off. “Enough!” he roared, slamming Bill’s head into the floor until he went limp, blood pooling.
Mary sobbed, curling into herself, her body violated, her mind shattered. Jesus knelt beside her, his hands shaking, but she flinched away. “You’re both monsters,” she spat, and crawled to the corner, clutching her torn robe. Bill groaned, alive but broken, his thigh gushing blood. Jesus stood over him, the knife in hand, his sadism warring with a flicker of something else—guilt, maybe, or exhaustion. He dropped the blade, turning to Mary. “I’m sorry,” he said, but she wouldn’t look at him.
The cycle stopped that day. Bill bled out by noon, his body a ruin. Mary vanished again, leaving Jesus alone in the house of horrors. He burned it down that night, the flames licking the sky, erasing the stench of their sins. He walked into the desert, naked and scarred, his mind a tangle of lust and loathing. He’d never escape what he’d done—what they’d done. Bill’s rape, his own, Mary’s return—they’d fucked each other into damnation, and no fire could cleanse that.