Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


Leave a comment

In the Outback

Kangaroos Silhouette Against The Setting SunI’m as much of an outsider to the populated metros as am to their remote and sparsely-inhabited inland. Yet, fate had it to see me become some sort of “tour guide”, an atypical one for the outback… too. The profession fell upon me through my father who moved he and I here when I was a teenager. He sought a world of peace far and away from the hustle and the bustle of consumerism and plutocracy. A self-made mountain-man back at the states, he lusted after the unknown of mother-nature. What better place to experience life than that where God only allows a few to survive: the land of the Kangaroos!

We spent months-on-end in the outback looking up at the stars during the night; gaining knowledge of the area and its people during the day. He built us a small scientific tour company to bring science out to the outback. It was our way of living, yet it took my happiness with it, too. I couldn’t accompany him in that last expedition from which he never returned. The last I heard of him was when he spoke to me through the screen door: “I’ll be back, son… no worries”, he said. The papers had it that a few of the members didn’t make it through the dry season but, I refused and still do, to believe that my dad was amongst the thirsty ones left behind.

The local media got a hold of my story and published it. It led to a major flood of thrill seekers at my doorsteps looking to go deep into the outback where other tourist guides refused to travel. They accompany me with the knowledge that I am not there for them nor their safety. There is always the possibility for one, or all of us not to return. I’ve spent most of the past 20 years looking from my father in the outback. I haven’t stumbled upon anything to build my hopes, still they are as high now as they were when I set out to find him.

Aboriginal OutpostBecause there isn’t a need for cash out here, I rarely ever charge more than food and spirits for my services. Tourists are dropped off for my pickup at random areas where I’m known to come collect water and materials throughout the year. It is also not guaranteed that I’ll make the drop-off times. If I’m not there in a three day window, I won’t be coming back for months; alternate spots must be sought by eager tourists. The few of us who live out here known where and when each of us loners is most likely to pop up.

I’ve become friends with many-a-criminals as I have kindhearts living and hiding out there. They have spared my life from nature more than once, too; which gives me hope that the same fate could have been experienced by my father. To the scattered englishmen in the outback I’m known as “the boy” because of the young age when I began my father’s search; the aborigines call me “unsettled spirit”. So called because of the pain I carry inside that keeps me pressing on and won’t let me die. They, the aborigines, are excellent companions in the dark of the night and the dry of the day. They taught me that while the outback is an unforgiving land, it has a way of selecting who will come out unharmed. No one enters here who can leave if nature selects them to stay behind… if fate cares not to spare their life. My dad could very well be one of selected ones but, that doesn’t mean his life could have been the price paid to stay.

Aboriginal WomanI have not picked up a tourist in my last three stops, a years worth of time I gather. My companion for the past few months, Kora, has rejected my taking on anyone, believing that the nocturnal spirit would have taken my life were I insolent enough to have brought them. The unlucky tourists have all been Americans. The greedy type, not the usual mellow fellows who find a breakage of an appendage time to smoke it up and drink. I’ve obeyed Kora each time. Being a foreigner to this land makes me listen to the people who’ve survived in it the longest. So, the soulless fellows have gone home after a few losing physical altercations with me. I suppose their money gives them the birthright to be disgraceful back at home, but here, in this land, I am the graceful one.

It’s the hottest period since anyone can remember. It’s been so hot that Kora believes we should create a new name for this type of heat. All I’ve heard in the week long journey to the only outpost within a reasonable trek is how the sun is not at all pleased. I am in an honest need for Kora to stop following me, or a few tourists to occupy Kora’s stories. She’s a kind one, but sometimes being alone in the outback for too long leaves one thirsty for verbiage. Oh, she’s at that point.

The night prior to reaching the outpost, Kora alerts me that this group of tourists, three in total, is welcomed in the outback. That I’ll be pleased of this group. I pay her little mind. I’m tired and would like a good night’s rest. She falls fast asleep quickly while I stay awake listening to the concoction of life during the night; more than any before I pay particular attention to it all around me. The fluttering of wings, footsteps drawing closer and walking away into the distance, the occasional thunder, and the whistles of the aborigines communicating in the dark. It was as if my ears were open for the very first time. Kora has been on a steady night-long-sleep. I haven’t slept… anxious for the imminent arrival of sunrise. To keep busy, I’ve been throwing twigs onto the bonfire to keep us warm. I enjoy the crackling sound of burning wood, coupled to the changing colours of both the twigs and the fire, it is as if alluding to the passages of a lifetime in just seconds.

I’ve prepared a meal for Kora and I, she’ll be up soon to get underway. She awakens ready to travel, ready to talk… If I’m not ready she’ll leave without me; not a bad thought at this point.

Leather Bowler HatI’m eager to feel the heat of the sun in the morning, to feel it strike my body until arriving at the outpost where we can ignore the sweat and suffocating weather for a few minutes. I’ve grown accustomed to the effects of the sun. I’m shirtless throughout the day most days… though covered in dust. I wear rubber-bottom cowboy boots and a old dusty leather bowler hat. At night my father’s leather overcoat prevents shivers from the unseasonably-cool breeze. I carry a day-pack with my belongings; not many, but essential for survival out here.

Kora spoke all morning long. She related about places I hadn’t yet visit, and the issues affecting her people. There wasn’t a topic she didn’t tackle. She even spoke of sexual encounters amongst the aborigines and the English.

By the time we reached the outpost, a few Englishmen were already loading two horses. They greeted me warmly, informing me that they were about to head east in my search to ask if I cared to indulge a few American tourists. As payment, these sneaky American mates brought three different bottles of whiskey from Colorado, loads of smoked beef, and dried fruits. How can I deny them with such delicacies brought to the wild! I shall take them, and drop them off in three weeks time at the abandoned post south east of here. They’ll be secure there until someone arrives to collect them.

They are an odd group. Kora continuously laughs at their mannerism… never having seen people like them; more so, men like the two in the group. Of the three people, two are males. The last is a woman in her early forties. The two men are, americanly-so, gay. Very flamboyant, friendly as can be, just as they are fearful of it all. I’m not sure why they chose me to trek the outback. There are far more accommodating guides than me. And, I’m not sure how Kora thinks these bloques will make it out in one piece. The woman stands a better chance than do the two fellows.

There are times when I pick tourists from, and return them to this very particular post. The proprietor, a young widower, allows usage of her horses for a small payment. The payment is of course, my services. Today she won’t be collecting any, I have not engaged in such services for well over a year. I haven’t a need for them at the moment. We are to set afoot for a week through some of the less traveled regions in the outback. The horses, and spending more energy here can only hinder us.

At the post Kora and I get acquainted with the tourists, eat then rest up until sun down. I indulged in too much of the fine spirits brought from the Americas than I anticipated. It was best to wait until I returned to my wits to resume the journey. Kora entertained everyone at the outpost, not hushing until it was time to leave. We are to walk for a few hours into the night. With the full moon it will be less difficult than otherwise. For the entire journey, the two men and the woman walk in a single line holding hands. They follow me and Kora ensures they don’t unsafely lag behind, she holds them tight at the end of the group.

I came to learn that they had selected to undertake this trip as a tribute to the woman’s father who had passed away here in the outback. She wasn’t American as her comrades, she was an Australian woman who’ve lived her entire life in America. Her father came home to rest in peace. He was an aborigine, and her mom was a white Australian. This journey was a homage to her departed father. The two fellows accompanying her were two of her closest friends. They didn’t know what situation they had agreed to undertake. But by the constant yelps and screams tonight… I’m fairly sure they grasp the situation.

Satisfied that we’d had enough of a head start, I set camp by a tree-lined thermal spring. That night I didn’t sleep either. The woman and I stayed awake trading stories about our fathers. She was in delightful physical condition. She appeared like one of them new-age women who spent too many hours sweating while holding strange poses at a yoga class. Her posture was incredibly flawless: standing or sitting. It was joy to watch her shape against the night with the help of a bonfire.

When light broke free of the night, her two companions awoke in an uproar. They had neglected to bring some items of utmost importance with them: digital cameras, music players, and chapstick. Kora agreed to take them back to the cabin, and catch up to us in a days time. I didn’t enjoy the idea of separating from Kora, but did welcome the thought of a quiet stroll through the outback without her. We agreed on a convening location: the mound of Birrahgnooloo, due south of our present whereabouts.

Scarlett was her name. As talkative as Kora was. I learned, at times ignored all about her. From life in college to becoming an author, she spoke of it all. I even learned that she’d only been intimate with one person: her high school sweetheart. When her father passed away, she became depressed… eventually abandoning him.

I walked ahead of her, often having to stop awaiting her slow gait to catch up. I’m not used to babysitting in the outback. It’s hard to wait on someone. It was midday, terribly hot, and it was time to eat. I set down my day-pack, instructed Scarlett to stay put until my return. I was gone close to two hours hunting a meal. I had to skin, gut and cook the three rabbits. I didn’t want to expose her to the outback faster than needed. When I returned she ate the meal not asking what it was. I assumed she preferred not knowing what it was.

I said little during the meal, but watched every move she made. My sight was fixated on her sweaty white shirt. Her breast attached the shirt speaking of full meals and pleasing sounds. She noticed me looking in her direction. She bashfully tugged at the shirt between her breasts and apologized for the sweat covered body. “Nonsense”, I exclaimed. “Sweat is part of the outback. You’ll get used to it.”

The continuation of the trek was somewhat peculiar. It was the first time that a female tourist probed into my sexual behavior. She was curious about how I managed the urge to be satisfied out in the wild. Who, when, where, how… when was the last encounter and with whom? Do I and Kara share more than a friendship? I had no reason to answer. It’s not habitual of me to reveal personal facts to strangers. I purposely disregarded the conversation; not because I ignore that I desire as much as the next primate but, out here in the outback many things entertain a person, many other things that I find more important than lust.

She wasn’t as secretive about her desires. She revealed details about her sexual preferences. What she didn’t and did like; how her monotone experiences sparked the curiosity in other men. She’d been a good girl, never deviated from her husbands ways, though often wondered about any and all the possibilities being missed by the limits of a lifelong partner. In her 40s now, she was ready to delve deeper into her sexual persona. All of the hard work on her physique was specifically for naughty purposes. Her belief was that feeling good about her appearance would draw a dormant personality. She would then have no quarrels withstanding the unknown of a controlling brute during intercourse. She’d handle it all, yet be able to fight back enticing more pleasurable-aggression from him.

Much of the sun was already under the horizon, only about a fifth stood short preventing the night from taking over. It was either pushing through ignoring hunger to a more suitable spot not two hours ahead, or listen to Scarlett who insisted we stop to bathe in the temporary lake that’d been created during the big rains up ahead. I reluctantly agreed. I was about to set off to hunt for our next meal when the sight of Scarlett undressing out in the open prevented my departure. She walked passed me into the water as if I weren’t even present. I turned to watch her walk into the lake, knee deep. She hinged at the hips right before my eyes. I wanted to forget about the next meal and consume her to my whim. But I didn’t. Instead I tossed her my knife, my whistle and asked her to use the whistle if in need of help.

I was gone for close to an hour, returning empty handed. I was far too distracted by the thought of Scarlett leaning over with her back to me. The slight changes of skin tones her body projected as muscles weaved and shaped her physique, just as did her anatomy, intoxicated me. I spent the majority of the time pondering the feast to be had with her. She made me forget about nutrition as means to survival. I desired her body as supplemental to nutrition. I licked and bit my lower lip until it throbbed. I could imagine her taste as it turned into my vitamins and minerals.

Stranahan's - Colorado WhiskeyScarlett had opened a bag of the smoked meat I received as payment from them, along with packaged goods she had been carrying. She looked to have had quite the meal. I opened a bottle of the Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey, sat on the floor and watched her gaze into the imminent dawn of the night. She wore a pair of ripped jean; the pocket mesh was coming out of one of the openings from where the colour maroon of her undergarment was visible. She had a fashionable safari shirt alluding to her inexperience in the wild. I drank, stared, and wondered if she thought to be in the Australian Exhibit at the San Francisco zoo.

While looking up at the sky, she asked if it could get any more beautiful. “Breathtaking they are, those very little suns suspended faraway in night of the sky. I’ll start a fire to lay beside where we can rest the dark away by counting stars.”

Magnesium starters are invaluable. They can start a fire in the thick of snow. Out here, a quick swipe and Scarlett rejoices about the little flames coming from the gathered twigs. She sways her hips without much need for music. I watched her lower body move, wondering if she would be as savvy when in my grasp.

By the onset of the night Scarlett and I sat adjacent to each other throwing sticks in the bonfire. We’d lay down to stargaze until it was time to refuel the fire. Only when a shooting star sped away in the distance would we comment. It was very quiet; enough to hear each other breathe. We took turns feeding the fire until she fell asleep. I got up to ensure there was enough supply of wood to keep it burning until the morning. I didn’t go to sleep right away. I walked about the edge of the lake listening to the nocturnal life satisfying their thirst.

Eventually I returned next to Scarlett. I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but it must have been fairly quick. The next thing I recall is Scarlett shaking me awake. A howling dingo nearby scared her sleep away. She did not want to stay awake by herself, nor did she want to return to sleep fearing the dingo. I stood up, grabbed the Stranahan’s, took a big gulp and said: “What do you suppose we do in the middle of the night if not sleep?” She approached me, took the bottle from my hands and placed it back my day-pack. I wasn’t to have any more of whiskey that night. She refused I drink any more.

Scarlett again probed into my personal life; asking if Kora and I engaged in adult acts. I ignored her once, twice, thrice and again I ignored her. It wasn’t until she asked me to sit on the floor that I understood the severity of her constant inquiries. I sat on the ground facing the bonfire. Legs stretched out towards it. She stood between my legs and pushed them to the sides. Button by button she opened the Safari shirt, which she left unbuttoned exposing her bare chest to the howling dingoes.

Gab of woman between inner thighsShe wasn’t as deliberate removing her jeans; those she pushed down easily without having to unbutton. They fell to the ground with the same rapidly-fluid motion that my mouth opened. I wished for endless lightning to cover the starry-sky providing the necessary light to admire every detail of her form. I wanted to see the maroon undergarments pressed against silhouetting her intimate persona. I desired to see the opening created between her crotch and upper inner thighs when legs are held together. I wanted to see the outback through the opening.

I was told to unbuckle my belt, to unbuttoned my jeans, and to pull out. I did not anticipate her candidness, nor was I about to let her command me, I grabbed her right arm pulling her down atop of me. She straddle around my lap, telling me that she that the hard welcome was a joy. She tried to stroke me, but I refused. I wanted to engulf my lips with her breasts, run my tongue throughout the sides of her neck, even reach towards her earlobes to feel the soft of her skin against my tongue.

Her opened shirt gave way to the most supple, yet pleasantly-firm-to-the-touch chest this side of the Glosses Buff. I became instantly infatuated by them. I crafted my mouth upon her upper torso as a skilled artist would upon his canvas. The desire was to ravage her yet, the soothing touch of skin on her bare chest against my lips prevented it. It enticed me to comfort my desire with gentle maneuvering of her breasts.

The outback surrounding us hushed down to perfect silence. It all except the crackling of wood burning away in the bonfire intently listened to her and I. Dingoes, footsteps, chirps, whistles nor the wind interrupted our dialog. The still of the night gave voice to the sound of her desire, the sound of my lips against her skin. It hurt to stop the feeling of her nipples gracing my tongue, but I sought to kiss Scarlett… just Scarlett. And that we did, we kissed; at times aggressively, others gently. She’d exhale into me, I’d exhale into her. It was no more than the exchange of desire through breaths. I would have inhaled every last breath of her passion that night, had it been perpetual.

During one of the moments of aggressive kissing, she reached down, grasped me with her left hand, lifted her body and slowly lowered herself until I was fully covered by her innermost sensations. She released a slow and steady “ah” that prevented us from kissing until her wits returned. Her hips remained immobile… simply holding me steady, embracing me as if sheltering a storm. I felt the contouring of her insides pressing against me, just as I felt the saturation gradually sipping down until my scrota was covered. Her chest pressed against mine yielded glimpses of her heartbeat as it accelerated and decelerated calibrating the rush of blood throughout the organs in her body.

More eventful it didn’t come to be. There was no movement of her hips colliding against mine sending the splash of wet skin against wet skin through the desert. The most vibrant sound in the outback that moment was that of our lips kissing, of two people losing reality in one another. We remained in the same position consuming our lips until she climaxed. She struggled to kiss me at that point… she did managed opened-mouth contact against my lips coupled to moans sprinkled with sighs. I didn’t respond. I stood still waiting for her to complete the experience. She climaxed longer than I have been used to. Her expression revealed through hints of the remaining fire was enough for me to end our adventure at that point. Yet, when she finished, she looked me in the eyes and ask that I too finish inside of her; to moisten her need to be with that rugged man that didn’t respond to anything or anyone.

The sound of her voice drove chills reached every digit in my body. I opened my mouth and struggled to express what I felt. I tried looking at her, tried looking up, tried to restrain the pleasure from saturating the night. It proved impossible. She looked down at me smiling…

The fire had gone out; remaining was our bodies next to one another, totally free of clothing. The early frenzy of outback life welcoming us. It was time to press on to meet Kora, but not before tracing my hands throughout her physique.


Leave a comment

Echoes from the Pulpit

Every Sunday morning prior to service I, Father Amaro, must prepare the altar to receive the congregation. Sometimes the ritual is more involved than others, nevertheless it’s as serious a task as it is enjoyable. Because of theoretical differences with the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the details of my ritual have remained a secret between me and the cooperating Sisters’ of our Lady Of Francis Convent.

The ritual began shortly after accepting vows to enter the priesthood. It was an idea that entered my mind during the six-month decon appointment, which was just the time required to plan every detail. While my dream had always been the priesthood, the vow of chastity was much of stumbling stone. Still, I knew that the righteous time to make my peace with God would arrive one way or another. And, this ritual was my mends with the High Lord.

During seminary study sexual interactions were discouraged in preference of friendships; I listened very little. My hypothesis was that if I were to spoil my demons prior to leading my own congregation, I had to bask in the hidden treasures of many-a-woman trousers. I undertook all sides of knowledge by not limiting myself to catechism, but it also engulfing in philandering. If my hypothesis was to be proven a fact, experimentation needed undertaking.

The seminary cemented my desire to become a priest. I finally accepted my fate. I took the vows of chastity relinquishing perdition. At least so I thought until the backsides pressed against the habits of a few of the Sisters of our Lady of Francis Convent’s proved fatal. All I saw from that point forward was the movement of glutes against fabric. I wondered what hid beneath Jehovah forbidden fruits. Nothing more went or came through my mind, only to follow Eve’s path to eat the fruit.

Engaging a few sisters wasn’t a difficult endeavor; of course much of the work was done for me through hearsay. “Seclusion” does a funny thing to a person; I represented as much deliverance to the sisters as they did to me. I would ask for a precise nun to aid in the ritual depending on how I felt Sunday mornings… depending on the sermon, on how I felt after breakfast. Wake up time was at 4AM those days. I’d go for a light jog around the village where many parishioners thought me a holy man chasing away the devil. After the run it was shower time where most of the sermon was conceived, as was the ritual to take place at the chancel. Directly because of the ritual, the nuns and I became responsible for the upkeep of the chancel to ensure “proper” construction.

Church Bell TowerBreakfast was nothing more than a cup of tea and soda crackers to have on the go. I’d have it up on the bell tower watching sunrise over the hills. A coveted sight it was to watch the morning rays peek through the convent windows. It would reveal undressing bodies, some more appealing than others, nevertheless, it was epiphany to me. I learned what windows to watch every sunrise throughout the year. Some windows I skipped, others I tried to look inside even when the sun wouldn’t allow it. Once the sun was completely uncovered, I’d watch the nuns walk from the convent towards church. Those aware of the ritual walked behind on the line, looking up at the bell-tower in excitement of whom I was to choose, I selfishly hoped.

Sister MayToday’s ritual is to be carried out with the help of Sister May. She is around my age; I’m a young priest as is a testament of my hormonal mishaps. The nuns prepare for mass in the yard. They pray for about an hour, then ready to welcome parishioners. That’s when the ritual takes place; somewhere between 9:30AM and and 10:30AM. I’ll be waiting at the altar for Sister May to walk in from the rectory. There is nothing under my robe, just as there isn’t under her habit. The chancel is covered in palm leaves, purple candles surround the space where we’ll consummate this holy reunion.

As I watch her walk towards me, I pace around, praying, chanting, flickering holy water around the altar, ignorant of scruples… as this very moment needs no interference from higher morals. She walks towards me undressing, leaving whatever clothing she’s wearing down the aisle. I meet her down at the low step of the chancel, disrobe showing her that our very own mass is about to start. We kneel, look up at Jesus the Christ on the cross, and pray. I stand up, walk up two steps and turn around facing Sister May. She leans forward, grabs my scrota from the bottom with her left hand, and with the right she directs it inside her mouth. She’s become versed with time. She’s made me see angels floating about the nave many a times.

I recall the first time I climaxed in her mouth. She nearly regurgitated on the altar. Oh, what a pretty sight… it was to realize that at her age innocence still resided.

Her saliva lubricates me throughly, preparing me for a world of Catholic consumption. She meets the head with her lips fitting it like a handcrafted fedora. Swiveling her head around to ensure that each part of the head gets to feel the warmth inside her mouth. She massages the scrota while jerking the shaft. Before ceasing the adventure she pushes me in completely, releases him causing it to quickly return to upright position and slap against my lower abdomen. She leans lower and puts the scrota on her mouth, a feeling I never realized I enjoyed prior to meeting her.

Sunlight Through Church WindowSatisfied with the preparation, she walks up to the last step of the chancel, hinges at the waist until both her hands are flat against the floor, and says “Oh, Holy Father, I have sinned. What is my penance?” I look back at the rear windows, the light crafts a hue reminiscence of the descending good upon the earth. I return my stare towards her to admire the gates of heaven. I look, think of Adam, and too taste the forbidden fruit. I trace it with my tongue as if about to call out the Song of Songs. I had always attributed heat to hell, but knowing that his very second I’m about to meet paradise, and it is not only warm but moist, has made me rethink both inferno and paradise. My tongue is covered in her scent.. luring desires I knew not I had.

I walk up the steps to meet her, piercing her just once to appease the deities inside of me. I pull out, grab her by the hair, stand her straight, and lead her towards the palm-tree-leaves bed I’ve made. I lay her face down on the bed of leaves, spread her legs far apart enough where is possible to place both my legs between them. I leave her there, grab one of the purple candles and… I let wax drip down on her glutes. I love the watch their reaction when the hot wax splashes against the skin. The first few times we carried out rituals I only splashed it against her butt, but now I use it to inform her of what part of her body will serve penance. Today, it will be the first time that I will cover the center of her buttocks with wax. We devout Catholics have come to enjoy repenting with a little pain.

I believe any well worth commitment should be carried out with some pain for both parties. It’s more difficult to hand down the punishment of the Lord without proper lubrication in the area, but it’s well worth it despite it. My lips don’t neglect that this woman laying face down with her legs spread apart needs to feel the joy of the lord, just as she will some discomfort. My lips run the length of her inner thighs, up to her crotch where I exercise the recipes of the heavens. I don’t allow her to climax, only desire for her to feel the lure of good throbbing in her.

Not soon enough do my lips undertake an upwards search to remove candle wax from the area it came to rest. I find it, struggle to remove it with my lips and tongue, so I employ the help of my hands. I bite her cheeks, squeeze hard, even slap them both leaving behind reminders of my presence. Sister May talks of the trinity, of the need to ask God to forgive the indiscretions gone unpaid until now. There isn’t a need to be forceful initially; first my tongue pierces her, massaging the idea that something greater was coming. Then my index finger circles around the orifice, pressing in but never penetrating. Her butt sways, her legs tense expecting that I will push in, but I don’t.

The man of God I am, I wait for the signal that she is ready. I kiss, bite, run my tongue alongside my index finger until her signal cues me to resume. I lay on top of her, grab my engorged self with my right hand and trace him up and down her vagina, soaking the head enough to aid in the task of abusing a less moisturized body part. I push her legs wider apart, lean over to her left ear and ask if she is ready to receive forgiveness. Clenching some palm tree leaves, she takes a breath and replies, “Yes, Father Amaro.”

I ask that she grab and position me. She frees her left hand from the leaves… reaches behind her to grab me. Her full hand holds my shaft, positioning me upon the supple area. I feel it against my head and push in. She attempts a disruption of a full penetration by pushing against my pelvis with her hand. I grab the arm, and direct her hand to her butt cheek, grab the second hand and place it on the other butt cheek. I instruct her to pull to the sides to give me a view of where I am to thrust with as much mercy as Christ was demonstrated when crucified.

I withdraw, stand back and watch her glutes spread to the sides pointing to the entrance I am to have. I lean on her again, but this time I don’t need her aid. I push in merciless! The entrance is difficult on me; though, I imagine not as much as it is to her. I haven’t the time to be delicate, this is the ritual to take place today. She must be strong for the work of a greater need. I thrust in hard, feeling skin to skin burn for a split moment. I thrust and thrust, she tells me it is painful. I ask her to tell me how much it hurts. She can only manage to repeatedly say “Oh, Father forgive me, forgive, myself I give to you.”

Church NaveI’m thrusting so recklessly that the sound of my pelvis hitting her backside echos through the sanctuary. Her praying voice following each echo to every nook. She tells me it hurts, but that she never thought there could be pleasure associated with it. I ask her to be hush; that I want to feel as I climax inside of her. I lose control, lean my torso against her back and bite her left shoulder enough to leave bite marks without drawing blood. I can’t take it much longer. I pull her up to hands and knees by her pelvis; I squat down and watch as I take her ass to my whim.

She goes between cries, prayers, and moans. By this point she no longer tries to hold me back. Now her head is moving about with her mouth opened. She tells me she can not take it any more. I grab her hair, pull her head slightly back to watch as her mouth opens and her deep dark eyes stare back at me, and I ejaculate. I grab both her butt cheeks, squeeze very hard, slap her the hardest I ever had then, meticulously move in and out ensuring to leave all I can inside of her.

I pull out, watch as some of me drips out of her. It falls all the way to the palm tree leaves. I get up, walk around turning the purple candles off. Sister May on the floor still breathes heavily. All the candles are off. I begin to pray, the Sister joins me. I stand over her, grab the base of my semi-erect being and squeeze up the urethra pushing out remnants of my lust. They fall on the low of her back. She smiles, and asks, “Is it going to hurt for much longer?” “I don’t know Sister, please notify me when the pain ceases”, I reply.

We clean the chancel of any sings of our encounter while still naked. I grab my handy receptacle, light frankincense and walk about the church cleansing it from ill spirits that might have come to watch along with the angles. Finally the bells sound announcing that we are 15 minutes from service. By now we are dressed, Sister May walks to the front doors, opens them, and stands outside waiting for her parochial duties to commence.


Leave a comment

Christian Coitus

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.