Epilogue Part I: A Visit To The Vatican 1/2
Anathema: A ban or curse pronounced with religious solemnity by ecclesiastical authority and accompanied by excommunication, sometimes even by the pope himself.
James sat on the end of the pew, admiring the alabaster window, its white dove surrounded by yellow glass and nested into a glorious frame of grasping gilded angels and cherubs.
A kaleidoscope of erotic glimmers from the previous night flickered through his mind; each one tinted a different shade of golden bronze by the Bohemian glass.
Rays of yellow brass and orange copper sunlight pierced through the alabaster rose above him and bathed the monumental spirals of the ancient black burnished metal canopy.
He was glad to be in a church. It was serene, and he needed a break. The two young women had drained him of every drop over the previous nights.
“A day of rest is in order,” he thought, leaning back and delicately placing his hand on Marie’s supple leg beside him.
As his fingers came to rest just above her knee, James became aware of the unnaturally rapid, puissant pulse pumping beneath his fingertips as well as a feverish heat radiating from his partner’s silk-enshrouded skin.
“She’s taught as a bowstring,” he thought and turned towards her in surprise.
His fears quickly turned to intrigue as he noticed her smile. It was Marie’s poker face, that indecipherable mask placed over the smirk of someone with a devastating hand about to lusciously lay them down to her opponent’s dismay.
That smile was all he needed to see. Any fantasies of a day of peace flew right out the window along with that innocent little white colombe.
At the moment, Marie almost looked like a grandmother, with her conservative full-length dark outfit and the silk Hermes scarf covering her head respectfully. But once James took in her rigid posture and intensely focused stare, he knew that mischief was brewing.
Once she pulled off her oversized bug-eye sunglasses, the truth tumbled out of those windows to the soul. “Grandmother” looked every bit the lascivious lupine. As wicked as Elizabeth Hurley’s devil in bedazzled, only Marie’s carmine lingerie was hiding under an oversized black trenchcoat.
James followed Marie’s peregrinal gaze and quickly found the poor little pigeon. It was Naomi. She stood bathed in ethereal light under the massive multi-colored marble pillars. In her immaculate schoolgirl uniform, she looked positively angelic. A mahogany stanchion and a red velvet line divider cordoned her from the wandering herds of devout worshipers and bumbling tourists.
Marie felt James’s eyes on her, glanced over her right shoulder, and slowly pulled something from her pocket. She slid a small, elegant black and gold circular remote into his palm, which had what looked like an infinity symbol embossed in the metal.
“Do you remember that birthday present I got you when Naomi first came to visit?” she asked suggestively. “That little toy we were saving for a special occasion . . .”
James looked over at her, intrigued, catching on quickly. He was already feeling the tug of her sensual aura, that irresistible erotic wavelength that all women can turn on, that lustful magnetism that melts the sense from a man’s head and fills his loins with molten lead. Marie had hers very much switched on.
“God, I love this woman,” James thought. Even after all these years, she still found new ways to drive him utterly wild. Things were never dull around her. She never exhausted new ways to spark that primal Neanderthal need in him. Here he was, only a few minutes into this new game, and already tingling with tumescence from head to toe.
“You’re wearing it!?” he exclaimed far too loudly.
A wrinkled and shawled old woman on the bench before them glanced back at him, throwing a quick but vicious stink eye over her shoulder. Her prayer beads clicked against the dark mahogany.
“Nooo,” Marie purred, “But she is. . .”
The index finger of her left hand extended over the bench to the ornately carved wooden structure a few meters ahead, crowned with Latin—the booth under the magnificent vaulted ceilings into which a very flushed and jittery-looking Naomi was just about to enter.
James caught Naomi’s eyes. She looked both terrified and aroused. Her eyes had a pleading, too-large, scared puppy-in-the-pound look, which, combined with her plump lips and rosy cheeks, only further inflamed his rapidly multiplying desire. James’s jaw went slack.
“Oh Marie, what did you do?”
Marie looked innocently at him like a little girl in a sweets shop trying to fleece her doting father for all he’s worth.
“Moi? Nothing at all. . . I just found a way to make this stuffy church business a little more entertaining.”
She tilted her head and, with a velvety hum, in her charming accent, quietly sang,
“Those Cath-O-lic girls start much too late .” She flashed her dark, wolfish, bedazzled grin at him. Her long, pointed canines gleamed savagely in the heavenly light.
The old woman before them twisted around and hissed furiously into her bony finger for quiet. She motioned to the surrounding cathedral with its countless quiet worshipers before turning back, muttering and grumbling Italian obscenities into her rosary.
Marie choked a laugh into her hand. Before James could argue about risk, Marie arrested him with her effusive gaze and placed her other hand, which held the remote, over his left hand.
“No one will ever know, baby. It will be our little secret.”
She gazed into him with pleading eyes, showing him the strength of her desire.
“Besides, Naomi needs this .” She leaned forward, whispered a breathy hot “Je t’ aime” into his ear, and just as she did this, her oxblood-painted fingertip depressed the remote’s power button.
A wicked little red light lit up, and the device began to thrum like a baby hummingbird had just woken up in its center. The remote’s movements perfectly mirrored the power level of its other half, which was currently buried deep in Naomi’s teenage cunt just a stone’s throw away from where the pair were perched on their pew.
“Christ. . .” James muttered almost wordlessly, watching Naomi stiffen as if the Holy Spirit had just seized her. The girl grabbed her lower belly with both hands just as the young man before her entered the confession booth.
Marie instantly and mercilessly increased the power with two depressions of the little + sign until the device was positively buzzing.
James watched in awe as Naomi’s white stocking-clad knees knocked and nearly buckled beneath her. Her jaw fell open in a gasp of pleasure. It looked like she had been stricken with an invisible bolt of lightning, and in a way, she had been.
“I really need to write the inventor a thank you note,” Marie thought, grinning savagely as she watched her cousin’s remote-controlled erotic crucifixion unfolding before her in real time.
She gripped James’s left hand to muffle the electrical bruit and surreptitiously pulled him into her “special” right trench coat pocket. Marie had tailored the “Nympho-Poche” for devious occasions just like this. It was oversized and had no bottom, allowing her hand clandestine access to the divine wonderland between her legs whenever she wished it, which was often.
“Better rally the troops, lads,” James thought, glancing down toward his well-used manhood and surrendering to the salacious succubus at his side who was now guiding his sinful digits directly toward her depths.
With James’s cashmere herringbone jacket piled between them, you could barely see anything was amiss. They looked like a respectable, well-dressed, conservative young couple deep in religious contemplation.
Few people in that holy place could have imagined such decadence and depravity, besides the bishops, and, of course, the cardinals, oh, and we mustn’t forget a good percentage of the priests, and obviously an unknown number of nuns . . .
Regardless, they all did their debauchery in the dark and followed it up with furious self-flagellation through which they were wholly freed of all but the mistiest memories of their unholiness.
No one in that magnificent monument could have imagined such decadence and depravity taking place in the light with no fear or shame.
As Marie pulled James’s left hand into her bottomless pocket, he found her legs slightly spread, just enough to give him access to her milky soft Galatean thighs. James found her hot, pantiless privates already soaked and distended with desire.
Her hand pushed the buzzing silicone disc and his fingers, which held them, hard into her engorged labia. She flexed her jaw and seized a sharp jet of air in through her flared nostrils as the thrilling throbbing humming pulsations resonated and synchronized with her clitoris, which by then was very nearly vibrating all on its own.
James’s index finger found its way to the entrance of Marie’s slick sex. She was so hot it felt like he was dipping his finger into the top of a still-burning candle or a clay Goddess who had only just come out of the kiln.
“How long has she been planning this?” he mused as his arousal intensified.
Marie always felt more sensation when she took pleasure in public, and today was no exception. Poor little Naomi’s deep distress only served to place a plump exponent on top of that profound pleasure.
Marie cooed ever so slightly, leaned into James, and said,
“I want youuu / J’ai envie de toiii.”
Beneath her garments her muscles rippled and writhed like a bag full of venomous serpents.
James could sense her deep arousal asserting itself. Marie’s magical black hazel eyes were crackling with their mauve madness like a gem of Alexandrite radiated behind each cornea.
Her spine was arching ever so slightly to give him better access. Her hips were undulating almost imperceptibly, her clit oscillating on the toy like a little joystick under a giant’s thumb.
She bit her lip hard, trying to control her wicked smile as she watched the beautiful young nymph in the catholic schoolgirl get up practically tap dancing before the confession booth.
“Poor little Naomi seems to be suffering from a sudden and overwhelming attack of ants in her pants,” whispered Marie.
“Even worse, she still has to tell the old man all her secrets.”
James groaned. His cock was already painfully hard. He had to lift his feet onto the bench meant for kneeling to hide the stone obelisk tenting his trousers. In disbelief, he brought his other hand to his brow and rubbed his forehead before looking at the glorious geometric marble mosaic above him.
As his gaze fell on the golden throne before them the color suddenly faded until his whole field of vision went monochrome like he had stumbled into an old black and white film.
James was stricken with a sudden phantasmagoric vision of Marie sitting on that throne, all the gold now transformed into inky black. She sat regally on her Stygian throne surrounded by dozens of cawing coal-black ravens.
On her brow was a seven-pointed crown encrusted with moonstones, opals, and sparkling obsidian. The only color he could see was her violet eyes which crackled with vengeful lust against the usurpers who had stolen her crown. She was as mad as a Maenad.
“Maybe she is a witch,” James thought, not for the first time, and blinked several times to clear his head of the hypnotic reverie. A chill ran up his spine as his fingertips continued to buzz away on his deranged fiance’s scalding sex.
They were sitting in Saint Peter’s Basilica. It was Sunday, and they were going to Hell.
—–
Earlier that day:
Naomi was nervous. It was going to be her first confession in nearly six months—or was it seven? She could not recall. She had been trying to reconcile her faith with her new life and found it increasingly irreconcilable.
Living with Marie and James in France had demolished her conservative world. She now mainly lived in their world—a world without shame, where her desires were celebrated instead of repressed.
She no longer believed in the church in the same way she had. She couldn’t. She had slipped into one of the most sinful, depraved, hedonistic lifestyles imaginable—a life of incestuous polyamory, drug-fueled orgies, and increasingly lewd public displays far beyond the worst nightmares of her conservative school teachers.
But Naomi still wanted to keep some room for a higher power. Even though Marie had overwhelmingly good arguments to support her disdain for Catholicism.
Naomi still had a lifetime of conditioning to grapple with. It was no easy thing to set down one’s religion. The crucifix had been buried deep in her mind.
She had noticed a theme in her behavior over the last months on her travels with Marie—a split, no, A Great Schism—a wild little Ms. Hyde had gotten its hooks into her hollow places. The same power struggle repeated every few days, the battle between the virgin singing under the church bell and the little mademoiselle who fell.
It went something like this . . .
After a particularly satisfying and exhausting session of lovemaking, Naomi’s conservative consciousness would snatch back the reins and drive her wild beasts back into the corral of fear and regret.
Guilt would begin to gnaw at her, and she would question everything. She carried this exhausting anxiety like an anvil until it tired her out. But then the night would come, the sensual dreams would swallow her chaste shepherd, and the dark creatures would dash.
Naomi would wake up with her ripe little morning bean plump and jumping for attention. Before the cold nun’s knuckles could get a grip, her swirling fingertips were already answering the buzz on the devil’s doorbell and showering her horned guest with the unholiest form of hospitality.
But as they say in French, the appetite comes with eating. The more Naomi fed this gluttonous guest, the more it demanded. The attention of her fingers just didn’t do it. They never did. They couldn’t. They only served to move that horny itch deeper.
It was practically a chase. A chase she always lost, lost herself in, and delighted in the various degrees of the losing. Just as her turgid little button began to give her some relief, the need would slide in and down settling itself behind her spongey little chestnut.
Then as she finally caved to the need and began to fuck herself in earnest, the next pleasurable peak only moved it even further up her walls until she had no choice but to enlist the help of Marie’s long skillful pianist fingers or borrow one of her coquettish cousin’s countless posh sex toys.
But far from extinguishing it, once her ravenous little snatch had that rough stimulation, the itch only mushroomed, radiating into her whole sex, its erotic tendrils sometimes stretching into her entire abdomen (and occasionally even up into her breasts) and then even Marie couldn’t satisfy her.
At that point, Naomi needed nothing more than to be stuffed and stretched. She needed to be used for another’s pleasure to find release. She required that glorious plump fullness that made her feel so exquisitely feminine, that primordial bliss that made some foamy voice in the depths of her mind praise her and say,
“Yes. This is what you were made for, Child. Do nothing but this day and night, for this is the offering which pleases me most.”
For that, she needed James. His long thick cock, with its soft as a rose petal head, plunged into her deepest recesses. So deep that his urethra would be pressed up against her cervix, creating that forbidden little love tunnel.
That gorgeous passage that temporarily unites anima and animus and threatens to unite their vessels eternally. All it took was one single drop of those salty viscous beads that Marie had warned her about (the ones that James so rarely released) which both terrified and thrilled Naomi.
That pulsing testosterone-fueled flesh toy that had deflowered her and that she had learned to love so much over the last months. What made her a woman was the only thing that could relieve that most wanton and womanly of all wants.
Naomi needed a heartbeat in her depths to quiet the frantic butterflies that fluttered in her belly. Once those monarchs were still, their wings occasionally plastered with cum, and her young cunt was sore and well-used, the feverish fantasies of anal beads would transform back into prayer beads, and the glorious game would begin again.
——
After the previous night’s lust-fueled orgy, the itch was practically gone. Naomi felt almost prudish as she walked through the Roman Forum. She wore her school uniform—a long dark green pleated skirt, white turtleneck, and a conservative black waist-length wool jacket. White over-the-knee stockings and old-fashioned black and white leather oxfords finished the ensemble. She had worn the same thing for years in this city, but now it felt like a costume.
When Marie had seen her put the skirt on, she laughed and said,
“Oh dear! You look ready to fight the English! All you need is a little blue paint right here!” and pinched her dimpled cheek.
James was less savage. He had only remarked that she looked far too much like a character in an adult film and that she should have an escort going anywhere in a city dressed in such a wholly provocative manner.
“There are too many perverts like Marie roaming the streets,” he said jokingly.
Marie, who was not at all pleased with the idea of Naomi begging for forgiveness from an old man, responded sardonically.
“It’s not the perverts like me you need to worry about, dear. Besides, she wouldn’t be the first girl to go missing in the depths of the Vatican.”
That comment made Naomi wince, and she was beginning to tell them she would be fine alone when Marie seemed to remember something and exclaimed suddenly and joyfully,
“But I think you are right James, We don’t want to lose my dear little cousin. We will go with her! Besides, I’d love to see the gallery of…
