Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Christian Coitus

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I consider myself a boring man, maybe boring isn’t the appropriate adjective, never the less, I have never been identified as a memorable partner. Many events in my past are to blame, at least that’s what I tell myself to make up for a lack of creativity. My entire adult life I’ve engaged in what I call “Christian Coitus”. I call it so because it has always been very sanitized, never deviating from much of anything. I’ve even considered lust a sin. I do not, I repeat, I do not engage in intimacy when in lust. I wait, and when it’s time to display love or to procreate, the old missionary position hails in rescue.

I have been doing that for the better part of 30 years. Never thought I’d get tired or bored, then this thing called internet came to be, and with it came a world of thoughts and ideas I had never considered. In these parts of the up-country traditions and thoughts prevail for millennia. I commenced reading late at night so that my sweetheart didn’t notice my new found interests. Every night for a long time I experimented with the ideas, and by experiment I mean attacking reason with bible passages to prevent me from seeing myself wrapped under varying circumstances.

I saw many-a things that sucked me in but, just as many I stumbled upon which I couldn’t heart to watch. It seemed like it all had an “ism”, “dothism”, “dothatism” was everywhere. I must be part of “Christian-ism” I thought to myself. The type of “ism” that isn’t found in all the other “isms”. I felt cheated! Ignorant of a world to which I was probably meant to be part. I wasn’t given a chance because of my geolocation; darn difficulty getting cable lines carrying 21st century thoughts into the mountain side.

Of the many demonic ideas, one innocent enough stayed with me. It is a simple step for a simple mind, I thought to myself. I feared that my sweetheart would reject the idea of sharing ungodly ventures. Yet, I had to ask. I had to find means to introduce her to the idea. I became so desperate to inform her that I even considered bible passages to support the thirst of slightly modifying “Christian Coitus”.

I was a changed man, a new man, a lustful man. But, would I go through with it? Would I be able to break the routine that had kept me safe all this time? The format that proved successful for all seven children of mine? The formula crafted by God himself. I’m positive when I say that immaculate conception was in the form of missionary. If it were proper enough to conceive Jesus the Christ, then why wasn’t it sufficient enough for the rest of the world, and now me?

One night I purposely kept the living room light on. It caused my honey to wake in the middle of the night. She looked around and I wasn’t in bed beside her. I was outside, in the balcony entrenched in wifi commodities. I heard her steps, though she still thinks I never did, otherwise I would have quickly changed to a more appropriate image. I did it on purpose! It was an indirect way to tell her I had been thinking about modifying my, our behaviour during intimacy.

At first it wasn’t easy. It mostly made her feel incomplete. She refused to agree that our life, or intimate life was confined by commodity, confined to religious dogma. It was days before her sadness lessened to where we could openly speak about it. I wish I knew the exact words I spoke to trigger a change of mind, but I don’t. I wish I also was the kind of man that speaks and the woman barks in compliance. I’m not that man. I sit, ponder, engage in dialog interested in a common ground. This time, however, it might have just been her who changed her mind. I was out driving cattle across the state following the green pasture for a few weeks. Upon my return, there were a few changed things. Most notably, there was one of them apparatus that takes digital photos. And, her undergarments surly shrunk in my absence; it must have been caused by the new dryer we got not a month back.

That night with my handy internet device, I went out to the balcony, watched the lightning bugs frolic, and read more in depth about intimate photography. I wanted to know when, and where, the angles which suited us best. Yes, I am ignorant. I don’t hide it, but this here thing gives me anything I search for.

It took us a few good months to become used to using the camera as well as looking at one another in provocative copulation. We hadn’t yet done, nor tried the one “ism” that had me ignoring the call of the good lord. No doubt it was soon to come, I could feel it. With each interaction we grew bolder, filled with decadence. Until one day it happened. As good would have it, we found one another in the all too familiar missionary position. This time, though, it wasn’t vaginal intercourse, no good sir, no.

I penetrated her where in my adult life I had never done so. It was also her first time. Her augmented secretion caused by the freshly discovered “isms” eased the entry. It didn’t work as I read in article upon article. We didn’t need aid to lubricate. She was lubrication enough. I slipped in. She looked at me and wondered how such ease came to be. I didn’t push all the way in, I moved back and forth at a moderate thrust and speed. She knew me so well that when I was about to climax, she pushed me off of her and readied for the “ism” that had me seeking rejection from Heaven’s gate.

The lips I had kissed for the better part of my life now wrapped tightly on to me. She wasn’t versed, but that made it all the more glorious because I knew that next to those virgin lips my residues of pleasure would come to rest. She slobbered more than she sucked. Her teeth scratching the head raw, a few times squeezing the sack too hard. Even the pain made it all seem surreal. I loved every second.

I picked up the camera while fighting back the release of millions of possible offspring. I held the camera in one hand — already having been set to “sport” mode for rapid image capture — and began to jerk myself close to her face. I salivated, my heart palpitated, I must have taken close to 20 gigabytes of “ism” that day. All of her face covered in me. Her lips dripping the substance, her left eye closed because of the long reach of my need. Even her nose captured essence. But it was nothing compared to watching the pictures of us with me in her mouth, semen on her face, and my object of affection being swiped clean with each stroke of her tongue, each insertion into her mouth. Index Finger in Her Mouth

The globs all over her face. I can not release them from memory. I can not stop looking at her in the pictures, looking at us. The one where the sticky substance is falling from her chin while the my head is covered in goo touching her tongue, with her big-bright-open-eyes staring back at me is my favorite. I haven’t told her so, but I have self-gratified to it various times.

I just don’t see how “Christian Coitus” will ever be the same.

Author: jibarican

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