Concentric (the third)

Here’s another helping of Mr Bram Stroker’s heady concoction of alluring, but darkly sexy connections.  – here are links to part 1 and part 2.

“The Body of Christ” the Priest said as he purposefully made his way along the line.
“The Blood of Christ” he went on.

Each willing devotee grateful to receive Him.
“The Body of Christ”. He neared.

Her first communion. At 18 she’d arrived late to her faith. She knelt. And waited.

A bridge to God stood before her. She looked up, partially closing her eyes. Slowly, she opened her mouth parting her perfectly painted lips. She presented herself. Her tongue patiently waiting to be fed. The absurdity of the charade didn’t escape her,

She wore a white satin ‘virginal’ blouse, as was expected of a Child of this house, her nod to tradition. At once she could feel the burn of eyes upon her. The assembled congregation all looking at her. As if frenzied to see her take it.

The priest stood before her

“The Body of Christ “.

He extended his hand. A thin wafer of bread pinched between perfectly manicured nails. Her tongue pressed toward it. She could feel her mouth salivating. So very hungry for Him And the sounds of the whispered others.

“Take it. Eat it. Join Him “…

As it reached her, she glimpsed up at the priest. The middle aged greying Everyman, now looked younger through the candle smoke. He sounded younger. And that incense. That sweet perfume. So intense. So thick in the air.

She closed her mouth, finding his fingertip captured; And forming a perfect grip she licked playfully at it. She swallowed the bread. No longer a virgin. She had given herself. Freely.

At last ‘He’ was inside her. The Priest moved on. Feeding the middle aged woman next in line. Then a number of children.
She stood, slowly, light headed from her experience, she returned to her seat. The cold oak pew pressed against her as she sat. Her body alive to every sense. Spirituality and desire filled her thoughts. And she was hungry. Shame or guilt or both consumed her. And the incense lay heavy like a cheap perfume on her clothing. She looked and noticed a single droplet of red wine had splashed against her breast. It drew attention.

The service ended. Hurriedly she left the Church. She had arrived alone. She left alone.

She never returned to the Church. Apart from weddings and funerals. The experience had left its indelible mark. As had the wine. A small strawberry blemish had appeared on her breast. Small enough to be hidden by the cup of her bra, large enough for her to know it was there.

The shame had grown inside her. Embarrassed at her youthful needs manifesting at that precise time. How her body had reacted & what she did later in her teenage bedroom.

She had left the building alone; apart from Him. He was now inside her. The years rolled on …

On a cold Winter day many years later, she was involved in community work. Ever busy. A solid society member. Partners had come and gone, but she had settled into mundanity. Husband. Children. Dog. A good job. Well paid. Happy. Yes. Bored. Very.

She busied herself in her projects, and this particular one was being co-ordinated by her local Catholic Church. A new priest in town. She giggled as she phrased it to the tune of an old Eagles song. She had been asked to ensure that any donation, food etc, had been secured in the church that day.

On the day, she wrapped up warm against the chill of January, her hair tied conservatively. She wore a long warm black skirt. Suede. Thick black tights. And a high collar, buttoned white shirt. Over this she wore a black frock coat. Calf length. She caught her reflection in her full length mirror and noted her monotoned hues. Nun like almost. How appropriate.

She walked the short distance to the Church. Frosted grass crunching beneath her boots. Her breath visibly rising heavenward with each exhale. Her hands deep in her coat pockets she pressed on, arriving in no time at the old building.

She stood at the solid door. And looking skyward, the spire seemed to be tumbling toward her against the grey sky. She paused. Over 20 years she thought. It was over 20 years ago. Steeling herself, she placed the flat of her hand onto the door and pushed. As she entered, the smell hit her immediately. She was transported. 18. Scared. Hungry.

Confused She shook it off and moved through the porch. Each step closer to the Nave. Each breath is more intoxicating than the last. She saw the nest of tables, noting that it was full. As it should be. This won’t take long she thought. She unbuttoned her coat and carried on auditing the gifts. So silent. The eeriness of an old building is always greater in the cold.

A breeze blew through the aisle, from the door she thought she’d closed. The candle flickered. And the incense holder swayed. She stood. And turned to leave. Raising her head mid step she was halted in her progress.

He stood before her. Younger than her, not by much. But enough for her to feel aware. He was good looking she thought.

The Victory of St Michael illuminated Him, haloing his crown. Overwhelmed by lust, she pushed him hard against the altar. The phallic symbolic crucifix atop it. The Priest.. did not protest. He could not. He gripped the cold marble top. And she knelt before him, parting her thighs as she did. She tore ravenously at her crotch. Ripping through the soaked fabric. Her nails as razors. Her coat caped out beneath her. And she grabbed at the priest.

‘The Body of Christ ‘she murmured, looking up at the holy man. ‘I want the fucking Body of Christ Father.’

Her painted lips parted. Her tongue, pointed extended in expectation, she looked up at Him. He was raptured. His trousers fell to his feet. She grabbed his God head. And she took it all. Deep into her throat. The tower bells peeled. Louder. Harder she worked. She was soaked.
She could feel Him growing inside her. She momentarily stopped. Wiping her smeared face she growled.

‘Give me your Daddy – give me His blood.’

She continued. Twisting as she took Him deeper The priest’s words and moans a sinful eulogy She felt his fingernails dig into her scalp; and as they did, the mark on her breast burned. The priest bent double over her. His torso rigid against her head.

‘No. No. I can..’ he pathetically protested.

And she felt the warm seed of God hit her. She took him from her mouth and swallowed.

‘You’ve Blessed me now Father’

She stood. Peering into the eyes of the broken curate, she leant into him, tasting the bead of sweat that was slowly streaming along his pulsating neck. She turned, buttoning her coat. The priest watched as, smiling, she left the church & on frozen grass the Devil walked away. Smiling.


This post is submitted for #SnakeDenAtoZ : Getting Hot in Here and on #MindfulMoments : Shame is a Soul Eating Emotion. My image is from Pexels on Pixabay.




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