Let me start by saying that I am not an emotional or irrational person. I am rarely driven into decisions because of the way they make me feel. And my faith in God is somewhat transitory; I go through phases of entertaining the notion of faith, and I know that faith is called faith for a reason. There is no scientific basis on which to base it. I know that.
I also think of emotion as also being temporary. You may feel one thing one day and feel the exact opposite the next. It’s the same with rationality.
So, today, I find myself in a church in what I can only describe as an irrational and emotional state. I don’t know why I am here but I find myself listening to sermons, singing songs and praying to him. Mostly, I’m looking at Father Patrick and wondering how he would abuse my young body if he were to see me naked. I think of him as strong, virile and passionate.
Father Patrick’s sermon, on why he believes that God feels emotions, makes me feel emotional. He has already made me understand that we do not need to feel guilt or shame over our emotions if we begin to understand them. I like what he says and how he describes it. This is just as well because I feel horny right now – which is an emotion that I may allow to get the better of me before the morning’s out.
As a child, I was taught that emotions lead us astray by doing what we feel rather than what is right. I have often been led astray but not because I was weak or feeble, but because I was strong and determined. Emotions can lead us, but they don’t always lead us astray.
Father Patrick rounds up his sermon and brings the morning’s prayers to an end. He has inspired me; inspired a lot of young women I should think, but I stop and stare at him as he busies himself at the pulpit while allowing the congregation to leave the church in an orderly fashion. I catch his eye briefly, but only because I’m sucking on my finger in the second pew.
My horny emotional state is foremost in my mind. I can see me, on my knees, worshipping something other than God; or perhaps to me, that something I want to worship is God. Having closed my eyes and bowed my head to the floor, it looks like I’m deep in prayer, contemplating the meaning of life, which, as we all know is forty-two, so no surprises there. I have this image in my head of Father Patrick’s cock down my throat which makes me shudder with excitement and dread at the same time because I know that Father Patrick wouldn’t look twice at me. I’m what you would class as a vamp in his eyes; some sexy young girl that’s out to ruin him.
Father Patrick is deeply spiritual and people like that are often unfazed and unmoved by temptation. He’s less emotional because he’s more spiritual and the expression of emotion often goes hand-in-hand with immaturity.
I’m immature, emotional and irrational but unlike most people in this congregation today, I’m not pretending to be anything other than what I am. Horny!
By the time I look up, Father Patrick and the whole congregation has left the church, leaving me to bite my lip in wonderment. It has grown cold; colder than it was when we all filed in. Why are these places always cold? It’s as if God can only function in cold places. The opposite of Hell, perhaps!
As I sit on the wooden bench I casually look around at the candles flickering near the altar, the rays of light streaming through the stained glass windows providing my thoughts with much-needed warmth and my nose pick up the musty smell that emanates from the moist bibles gathering dust on the pews. And I ask myself, why are there so many cushions on the floor? I casually lift my bottom off the bench and hook my fingers into the waistband of my knickers pulling them down my thighs and over my legs. After stepping out of them, I look at them with a wicked smile and casually drop them on the pew next to me. It’s my offering to God, a token of my appreciation for bringing me the visual sight of Father Patrick if nothing else.
I wonder how long they will remain and I wonder who will pick them up and whether they will sniff at the wet gusset if they do? I wonder if it will be Father Patrick. I do hope so.
It’s not until I start to rise and walk from the pew that I notice the sheer expanse of the church that surrounds me. There are alcoves and narrow corridors everywhere; a girl could get lost in here, on her own. I bite at my nail and wonder how many maidens have been chased down these corridors by spiritual men of the cloth eager to satisfy their needs. My heels clip and clop on the stone flooring as I wander from dark alcove to dark alcove. The only light seems to come from the windows and in places, the splash of colour seems almost magical as it dances across the ornate furniture. As if someone is looking over this place.
It’s eerily silent now that everyone’s gone.
I round a corner and I stop suddenly in front of two doors. I look them up and down as if they are two hunky men about to take me. I even look over my shoulder to decide whether I should or shouldn’t pounce on them first.
What the hell? The wrong phrase I know, but I slip my coat off and throw it over a small bannister to the side of the confessions box. I nonchalantly walk inside and make a feeble attempt at closing the door.
It’s nowhere near the size of the changing rooms in Mark’s and Spencers, it’s dark and dingy with only a small red light shining from the ceiling. Rather apt, I reason, for what I have in mind. The bench is hard and uncomfortable. You’d have thought that if God wanted you to get a lot of things off your chest, confess your sins, that his followers would make these seats a little more comfortable. The most disappointing thing is that there’s no mirror.
I unbutton my casual white top and lay it on the seat, next is my skirt, neatly joining it before I sit down and start to flick at my bare nipple. They’re already standing proud of my breasts and aching to be touched. I just wish it were Father Patrick doing the flicking. Making them extend so that they could fit neatly between his lips.
I’d give anything for him to be standing outside looking through the gap in the door, watching me, finding me irresistible and then having to open the door and bend down to take my nipples in his mouth.
During the church lessons that I attended as a child, they said that if we ignore our emotions, they would simply go away. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I realised that was a load of bollocks. The idea of suppressed emotions only leads to hypocritical families and church communities believing that they are doing everything in the will of God. But, just take a break and wonder at how many hidden secrets abound in such communities.
I think, if we embrace our emotions, let them out, give them room to play, entice them, encourage them to grow then we will be more in tune with what God intended and maybe we would become more mature, quicker.
That’s what I intend to do right now. Become more mature, quicker and in support of those thoughts, I start to rub my nipples, pulling on them and squeezing them. They react as I expect and makes me sob a little.
These narrow benches are a struggle to sit on so I slip to the floor and spread my legs a little, rolling my hands down the sides of my body, caressing it. I shiver with a little excitement or it could be from a gust of cold air that has found its way into the confessions box.
I imagine Father Patrick’s manhood staring at me with its single eye. Measuring me up for size. I can see his hand around it and I close my eyes to the thought of him doing unearthly things to my body. I look into his deep blue eyes to seek approval. My knees slip on the floor which only serves to expose me to the rest of the church as the door moves outward.
All I have on is a crutchless one-piece fishnet garment that I wore under my skirt and top. Not the thing you usually wear to church but as I said, I was emotional and irrational when I awoke this morning – and it has been a while.
Father Patrick said that there is no spiritual growth without emotional growth. It made me snigger when I heard him say that because I would like to improve Father Patrick’s spiritual growth by allowing his emotional growth to slide down the back of my throat. I know I can take him, I’ve taken a cucumber, so I know. I look on it as God helping me on my spiritual journey. Just like God is helping me slide my finger into my cunt right now.
I’ve done with the foreplay. That was an hour ago before I walked into the church and sat down in the second pew opposite Father Patrick. I was fingering myself as I sat there listening to him speak, watching his eyes rest on every one of us. I wonder if he could tell what I was doing?
Remember the wet knickers I left in the pew. Well, my finger is squelching away at my folds and I can feel that there is a wonderful orgasm waiting to make itself known to these four walls. Well, three walls and an open door.
Some people worship God all the time, some only once a week. I think I’m better than all of them because I worship my pussy every day. I have complete faith, backup up by science, that I will feel good after it – I always do. What I am doing right now feels good to me, there is no shame and I’m doing it in this church because God doesn’t want me to feel shameful. I think that’s a pretty good argument. Don’t you?
I let out a couple of loud sighs as I feel passion and pleasure build in my body. The endorphins soothe my emotions, make me more rational but it’s too late now. I must see this through to the end, to the point where Father Patrick is going to soothe some other part of my body with warm nectar.
I can imagine him using me and it’s not the thought of his manhood taking me, it’s the thought that I know he cannot resits my body and will feel guilty afterwards. That he has somehow broken some oath to his God, despite his sermons to the contrary.
It was his preaching that started me off. It was him that said, “do not feel shameful, for, in the eyes of God, you are not.” Well, here I am, fully within the scope of God’s eyes and not feeling one iota of shame.
Quite the opposite. In a few minutes, I am going to feel relieved, empowered and blissfully aware that this God of all faiths shares my passion. I want to climax but I want to cum hard. My fingers work to excite my body, but it’s not just the touching and feeling of those nerve endings that is magnifying my emotions right now. It’s the place where I’m doing it, the clothes that I wear, the immediacy of my predicament should I get caught. God, I want to get caught. That’s the only thing that could make my orgasm even better. Caught by Father Patrick, or God himself if he would like to make an appearance. I’m sure I’m worth it.
I can feel my climax building. This is not seedy, it’s not dirty or slutty or perverted. This is my pleasure. I’m not rushing this climax either, I’m savouring it, making it last, extending it as far as it will go. Edging. Although the edging on this bench is biting a little into my back, not that I’m against pain in any way shape or form. Right now, I’m allowing my orgasm the freedom that it needs to grow.
Just like Father Patrick’s cock will grow should it present itself to my gaze? My imagination runs wild, images of what he would do to me bombard my senses. I find myself on all fours, on my knees, hands tied to the ceiling by tight ropes as my legs wrap around his waist or even better, suspended by the bell ropes. I find myself begging to be used, taken unceremoniously, anything for his meat to be inside me and his lips on mine. Images of me staring into a mirror with Father Patrick’s lustful grin behind me as he plunders my loins. I want both of us to be possessed with lust-filled eyes. Our behaviour, animalistic.
I’m nearly there. Nearly at the end of my journey. My fingers busy themselves on my sensitive little nub and suddenly the Red Sea is no longer being held back by God’s powerful hands. The waves of pleasure come crashing down onto me, into me, around me. My surroundings and my need converge making this confessional box my orgasm, my climax, my world.
As my mind reaches through the waves of pleasure, sinews of the outside world start to make itself felt and heard. The brush of thick cloth against the stone flooring, was I imagining that? The creaking wood and the flexing of the same wooden bench, did I just feel my back twist by the straining bench? The sudden sliding of wood within the confines of the wall next to my head. My eyes fling themselves open as the splash of the same red light falls onto my upwardly pointing face. My head almost forced backwards as the arch of my back prepares for my release.
The fog around my head clears and a sudden presence of mind brings me firmly down to earth. I cannot stop my fingertips from circling or my lungs preventing any release of air. Between sudden loud exhales of breath I blurt out the only phrase I can think of before my orgasm hits me.
“Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”
~~~
Father Patrick, sits in his chair listening to Melissa climax. Her blasphemous outburst, although bound up with loosely arranged elements of faith, consisting of ‘Oh! Jesus,’ ‘Oh! God,’ and ‘Fuck, me!’ felt rather profound.
His stiffening member denied him of any kind of spiritual superiority over his emotions. Underneath the façade, he was no better than Melissa. A little more rational perhaps. His ears pressed hard to the wooden grill that separates them – his senses, straining.
Hanging on her every word… every whisper… every sigh.
