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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don't believe in categorizing things. "I don't want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don't type things myself."  I think it's  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.                   o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Sacrament (ds, sm, religious)
by Gwydion McCarthy (sir_gwydion@rocketmail.com)
Jul 1997

***

Warning: this story contains sadism, masochism, Religious imagery and
connotations.  It refers to child abuse and abortion.  The queasy may
wish to look elsewhere for their erotica. 

Still, this story is not made for shock value. Read on and you'll see
what I mean.

She was young, and slight. Green eyes, amber hair in a tight bun. 
Pale skin.  A body shaped by famine and cheap food.  She liked the
sameness of the maid's uniform she wore, didn't mind wearing clothing
with its shapeless, formless lines.  She thought it would hide her
from those who had temptations of the flesh.  She knew that its thick
polyester would never inspire sensuality in her own skin, she knew she
would be safe from that inside the uncomfortable confines of her
utilitarian uniform.  She had three that she wore in rotation, each
week another would come back from the uniform service having been
scrubbed clean of the wine stains, bouilloubase, cherry tart sauce
that would baptize her on her nightly rounds. 

She often wished that she could include herself in the plastic bag,
get sent to the cleaners, and returned so free of blemish.  She knew,
though, that she was more stained than that. That nothing could free
her from her sin, except constant vigilance. She did not want to slip
into the dark abyss which she felt waiting for her.  She thought about
it nearly all the time - every step of lonely labor was another
reminder of the fight she had to conduct each night.

"Angelina?" came a voice from behind her. She looked up, clearing out
of her eyes a single curl of amber locks that had escaped her tight
bun. It was Hathaway, the service manager. She felt cold fear seize
her throat. 

The matronly woman was holding a nearly full trash can. "You didn't
empty this. Room 213." 

Her eyes cast down to the wastebasket.  She couldn't remember even
seeing it.  It was filled with various plastic wrap printed in
different colors, each one showing lurid graphics.  There were a few
used condom wrappers visible on top, and their discarded skins filled
with pearlescent fluid also visible.   She visibly shuddered, but did
not let her voice show her fear. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry. I'll empty it
right now." 

Like an automaton she took the trash bin and upended it into her own,
larger basket.  The rubbish fell out in several loud clumps, the
fluttering sound of a magazine coming out last.  Her eyes were drawn
to the pictures held open by the discarded beer cans. There was a porn
magazine, laying open in the trash, clearly showing a young woman tied
to a bed, being beaten by another woman and a man with a black mask
and something black strapped onto his penis to make it stand out
straight. She shuddered to herself in that moment, but wordlessly kept
moving down the hallway. She didn't acknowledge the burning eyes of
her matronly supervisor, whose frown bespoke volumes - almost as much
as her silence. 

She reached up and absently touched the ring on a chain around her
neck.  She still wore the engagement ring that Charles had given her. 
She still wore the little silver heart, locked into place on a
necklace she always wore, which was the first gift he had ever given
her. She wore them less for fond memories and more as an acknowledged
badge of failure - of sin.  Inside the heart were all the memories of
Charles from the first day he kissed her until the day she came back
from the abortion clinic and he left her.  She did not allow herself
to long for him.  She knew that it was sinful to do so.  Still, there
were times alone in her room at night she would find herself thinking
of him, of when he would take her so forcefully, without regard to her
pleas that it wasn't right.  She knew it was evil of her to want that
again, and she knew that God had taken Charles away because she hadn't
shown the strength she should have with him and his desires. 

Still, those images crept back to her brain, and she found herself
wondering things like whether the ropes tying the woman to the bed
would hurt.  Whether that poor, nameless woman could breathe with a
man's penis thrust into her mouth.  Whether she was being forced to do
those things, or had done them willingly.  She squeezed her
key-bearing hand, and put her hand to the gold cross her mother had
given her, the one that hung next to the little heart-lock.

She went mechanically through her work, until she saw a man walking
down the hallway, passing her, looking at her with a kind of curious
smile on his face.  His face was beautiful, saintly.  For a second she
found herself wondering if it were God looking at her through him. 

And then he was passed, and she noticed a ring on his finger, a ring
with a cross, a ring just like the ring of a priest.  Her eyes
followed him down the hall until he got to a doorway farther down the
hall.  He went in and closed the door, then opened the door once again
and hung something on the handle, a "do not disturb" sign she thought. 

As she cleaned the next room, she found herself wondering about this
man who wore a priest's ring.  She shivered to herself as she wondered
whether this man was a priest.  Perhaps he would talk to her, comfort
her in her inner struggle, if he only knew. 

She moved mechanically through the next room to clean, just doing her
job.  When she walked back to the trashcan, the magazine was still
there.  She found her hands moving of their own accord, moving to pick
up the magazine, to look at it more closely. She thumbed through the
pictures, watching the scenes change, in each a woman of a different
body style, or skin color was being tied up in various positions and
used roughly.  She gasped when she came to the layout when a woman
dressed as a nun (surely not a Sister for real) was kneeling in front
of a man dressed as a priest, receiving hits from a many-tailed whip. 
She shuddered and threw the magazine away from her as if it had
suddenly caught fire. She turned to rush back into the corridor,
slamming the door, forgetting to vacuum the room, just wanting to get
away from herself. 

She had to lean against the wall, feeling tears rushing to her eyes. 
She moved down the hall, looking for Hathaway, who had obviously gone
on to other floors looking for other maids.  She moved to the door
that the priest had gone through, knocking on it without thinking. 
She noticed the sign on the door was "Need Maid Service Immediately." 

It was just when that door opened that she realized the number of the
room - 213. 

Then the priest was there, his smile there, God smiling to her through
him.  All of her fear and sadness washed away in the man's gaze.  "Oh
good, you're here.  I was hoping you'd knock."  The man said softly. 

"Forgive me for disturbing you Father, but..."  She felt fear seize
her heart.  Surely that magazine was not his magazine, the condoms not
his? Surely not. 

He smiled. "No disturbance.  I needed some more towels.  But I'm a
little concerned about you! You look like a ghost.  Please come in." 

She walked in and sat on the bed, looking at him, unsure.  He sat down
next to her, taking her hand in his. "I'm no longer a priest, my dear.
 I left the priesthood a few years ago.  I'm a counselor, however, if
you need to talk." 

She nodded slowly. "Father, I..."  His voice was calm, solicitous. 
"Call me Brian."  She nodded again. "Brian, I feel like... maybe
you'll think this silly, but...I feel as though I'm surrounded by
demons."  

He listened, his face unchanging. "Why do you feel this way?"  She
spoke quietly. "Because I have very impure thoughts.  Because I know
what is sinful, and yet I do it anyway." 

She looked around the room.  She had seen the large leather briefcase
before, it had been locked when she'd cleaned the room before.  Maybe
she missed the wastebasket the day before? Surely that filthy, sinful
trash was not his? 

Brian nodded, softly. "You don't feel you can share these feelings
with your priest?" 

She shook her head 'no.' "I try to tell him in confession, but I don't
- I can't seem to even speak of it in the house of God." 

His face was full of compassion.  "I understand. There are some things
which are terrible burdens, so terrible that we think even God doesn't
wish to have them.  If I were still a priest, I would offer you
confession right here, right now...but..." 

Her face changed, her eyes becoming pleading, her mouth open a little.
"But?" she asked quietly. 

"But I can't.  I'm not even sure it would be efficacious." 

She looked at him. "Why did you leave the priesthood, Fath...Brian?" 

He sighed deeply.  He turned his head and stared out the window into
the endless night. 

"I lost my faith, basically.  I was a counselor for the local hospital
emergency room.  I found so many who had been badly used, who had been
cut, beaten, wounded.  I found so many who were lost, and no one
wanted to hear that God could help them.  My faith left me when a
young woman I was counseling ended up dead in an alleyway, after all
my prayers and help.  I feel like God is no longer watching us in this
world, that we must call out to him, and even then he doesn't hear." 

She couldn't help but shudder in fear, hearing those words. "I - I'm
sorry." 

"It's not your fault. You are like a ray of sunshine to me.  You hold
out hope that there are others who have the faith that I lost." 

His arms embraced her softly, she fell to him, found that her tears
were already streaming down her cheeks, feeling a terrible weight on
her shoulders.  And a revulsion as she felt her body responding to his
warm, strong touch. 

She started to stand. "I think I need to go." 

"No confession for you then?" He asked quietly. 

She looked at him. "I thought you said..." 

He shrugged.  "I'm not a priest, but I'm still Catholic.  If you
wanted to confess to me, I don't see the harm.  It's the least I can
do." 

She nodded. "Wh-what do I do?" 

He smiled. "In absence of a confessional, in the old days they used to
kneel. But you don't..." 

She sank to her knees in front of him. 

"Bless me.....Brian, for I have sinned. It's been three weeks since my
last confession." 

He nodded softly. "Do you have something you want to get off your
chest?" 

She turned away from him, even though he had taken her hand again.  "I
have impure thoughts.  I want to do things. I want what was once
before." 

"What thoughts? what things?" His voice was soft, eliciting her calm. 

She took a deep breath, let it out, then said "My old
fiancée...Charles...used to use me sexually." 

Brian nodded. "How?" 

"He would tie me to the bed and...rape me." She stifled a sob in her
voice. 

"Rape you?" He murmured. 

"I promise you, I knew it was evil. I didn't let him. He did it even
though I hated it." Her words were spilling out now. 

"And you find yourself wanting this now?" He asked quietly. 

She paused, swallowed. "I want it now.  I find myself thinking about
it.  And Father?" 

"Yes, child?" 

 "I found myself looking at a pornographic magazine just a little
while ago.  You may have seen it in the trash here." 

"What were you thinking when you were looking at the magazine?"  Her
face burned, but she knew she had to confess to all that she had done. 

"I was thinking that I would like to be her, Father." 

"Who?" 

"The woman in the pictures." 

"The one who was restrained and used sexually?" 

"Yes." 

"What is your name, child?"

"Angelina, Father."

"Angelina, you are beautiful to me. I do not think you are sinful."

"You don't?"

"I think you can overcome your sin."

"How, Father?"

"I will be glad to administer your penance.  But I want your assurance
that it is what you want." 

She hung her head low.  She breathed in deeply.  Then she turned to
him, looking up into his eyes, his beautiful saintly, beatific eyes. 

"I will submit to whatever you prescribe, Father."

He stepped over to the briefcase, unlatched it, and put it down on the
bed.  "Even if I use these to administer it?" 

Her eyes found what he was showing her.  She looked at the heavy
leather paddle, the scourge, the leather cuffs there. She knew what he
would do with them.  She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.  She
hung her head low. 

"Yes, Father."

"Very well.  Return to me after your chores are done.  If you truly
wish to be cleansed, you will be here then.  Depart in peace and pray
for your soul." 

Still looking at the briefcase, she nodded, stood up, stifled a "Thank
you" and rushed out.

***

He couldn't bring himself to pray anymore, and the only feelings he
could feel were under very extreme circumstances.  He knew where to
get that - a woman named Olivia he'd counseled at the emergency room
had wanted to repay him for his kindness after he had interceded for a
lover of hers - a young girl afraid, having broken her arm in
extremely strange circumstances.  He still remembered what it was like
to go to this woman's apartment, the long conversations with Olivia
that led to him willingly shedding his clothes and submitting to her
whips and paddles.  At first he was ashamed at his response to the
treatment, but then realized that somewhere in all of the ritual, of
being bound and forced to submit to the lash, to the paddle, to the
indignity of an al penetration that somewhere in all of that there was
a sacrament of sorts - an outward sign of an inward grace.  From
Olivia's tutelage he had come to know a kind of peace, even if his
faith was utterly crushed.  Perhaps God would forgive him if he gave
this peace to another.  

***

It was late when she was done, close to midnight.  She had pulled
laundry duty and was running thousands of white tablecloths through
the massive washers and dryers in the basement of the hotel. She
almost just went home, as she did every night, but she could not find
her way around the thoughts of what awaited her behind the door of
room 213.  And yet she just carried on as if nothing was different, as
if she weren't going to do anything out of the ordinary that evening. 
When she was finally off work, she just let her legs carry her to the
room.  Off-duty now, her overcoat over her maid's uniform, she didn't
even pause as she knocked.  

Brian opened the door, let her into the room.  She caught immediately
the scent of holy incense, the sound of Gregorian chants coming from a
CD-player, the glow of a hundred white candles under glass making an
altar of light on the desk.  "Kneel for me, please, Angelina." He
said.  Although he wore no priest's collar, he was clothed in a dark
cassock which very clearly made his role plausible.  He whispered a
prayer in Latin over her, dousing her in smoke from a censer.  

"Remove your clothes for your penance."  She closed her eyes. 
Shaking, she stood and unzipped the heavy polyester.  She clawed her
way out of the confining clothes and cast them down. She stood before
him in just her dirty white bra (slowly falling apart from months of
everyday use) and plain white cotton panties.  She felt his hands
pulling at the bun on her head and felt a blush of embarrassment as
her amber strands fell down her back, covering her like a veil.  "The
underwear too, Angelina.  You must be as you will be in Heaven, before
God."  

She shuddered, unable to move her fingers to the bra clasp.  He
reached around and twisted the clasp open, pulling her bra off.  She
clasped her breasts as if she were ashamed of their very existence. 
She felt his fingers pulling at the waistband of her panties and
sliding them down to her ankles, where she unconsciously stepped out
of them.  Her breathing was labored, her skin flushed, her breath
ragged. She shook her head unconsciously as erotic feelings washed
over her, denying herself.  She felt her nipples hardening against her
palms. She knelt for him and felt water splashing her as he purified
her naked skin, hearing his blessing in Latin.  "Go and prostrate
yourself before God on the bed, there."  She nodded and half-walked,
half-crawled to the bed, throwing herself on her stomach there,
burying her head in the pillow, feeling tremendous embarrassment at
her condition and shame that her body was rebelling against her and
bringing out wetness between her thighs. Her young body was ripe with
the scent of her work all day, her arousal.  It mixed well with the
incense.  

***

Somehow he had known she would come to him.  Somehow he knew it would
be this simple.  His hands did not shake, for he had done this many
times with women of less faith than this one.  He had worked for
Olivia for many years before leaving her service, punishing debutantes
whose mothers paid for their discipline, beating horny older women who
could no longer find pleasure in their husband's now-wilting penises.
But never had someone so willingly, with such grace, come to him and
give herself over to his ministration.  Everything about her reminded
him of why he entered the priesthood. He saw that she had entered a
kind of trance as she had entered the room, a holy kind of veil had
fallen across her.  And his movements seemed as pre-ordained as the
passage of the spheres through the heavens.  He let the sacrament take
him, move through him.  

***

She felt as if everything was happening to someone else - someone
else's arms were being affixed to leather manacles by the wrist, bound
to the bed by leather cords.  Someone else's ankles were being
similarly attached. She felt as if someone else was hearing the sounds
of preparation, of the whoosh of a whip moving through the air near
her.  The fact that she could barely move her limbs and her body only
a little was more from the hypnotic effect of the chants in her ear
and the smell of the incense than from the bonds themselves.  She
found herself wanting to cry, but clearly unable to. She just waited
in silence for her penance to begin.

The first strike of the scourge was happening to someone else.  The
second, however, hit *her*, squarely, across her buttocks.  She tensed
them, feeling the sting as it brought up blood to the skin.  She
fought the need to cry out in pain.  She knew Christ never cried out
from his scourging, she must do as He did. 

Another strike. Harder this time. She felt her tears brimming to the
edge of her eyes.  She found that she was welcoming each blow, despite
the fact that she felt no less sinful than before.  If anything, the
recognition that the pain was making her young body react even more
with wetness and sinful need made her feel like she was falling over
into the blackest part of the Pit.

He was praying over her, asking God to cleanse her.  He wielded the
scourge with an expertise that bespoke practice.  He hit her again and
again.  He covered her back in red mottled color, working down to just
above the small of her back, and then again picking up to her buttocks
and down to her thighs, where her screams began as he continued to
whelm her. The stinging cords of the scourge wrapped around the
delicate skin of her thighs, reaching around to her inner thighs and
biting with glass-like sharpness. 

Her cries brought her tears. "I'm so foul, Father. I'm so wicked. I'm
so sorry..." she whimpered through each strike.  Above the chanting,
above the call of the whip, above her cries as he hit her, she heard
him saying, "Bless you, may you find peace." over and over again. 

She couldn't even began to ask for peace.  She remembered the last
time she submitted to such penance - when she was 16, and had been
caught with Charles in the living room, kissing.  Her mother had
beaten her with a hair brush, naked across her lap, calling her a
whore.  It was only after her mother had broken the hair brush, after
she had sobbed and begged forgiveness, only after she had cuddled
naked next to her loving mother's breast did she feel redeemed, and
the welts that she sat on for weeks afterward kept her on the straight
and narrow.  She felt something welling up in her soul as Brian took
out the large black leather-covered paddle, and began to beat her with
it across her already-hurting bottom.  She felt her thighs were
absolutely soaked, she hoped it was from sweat and not from sinful
arousal. 

The third stroke of the paddle brought out a cry of "Mother!" from her
lips; Brian startled, pausing, quietly.  She was sobbing over and
over, crying out "I'm so sorry" over and over again, twisting on the
bed, a wet spot welling out on the hotel bed sheets from between her
legs.  She felt something sliding between her legs.  Fingers, dipping
into her wetness.  They were ruthless and without shame.  They touched
her in the way she touched herself when she was being sinful, and they
brought out all the rest of her sinful memories and longings.  She
wept and felt her shame grow along with the evil pleasure from between
her legs.  

She thrashed against the pillow, fighting the inevitability of where
the pleasure was taking her, feeling her sin become pleasure and
pleasure become sin in a loop of repeated iterations.  The fingers
were relentless, and they seemed to know exactly how her body would
respond.  She pulled against her bonds.  Suddenly she began to push
against the fingers, not caring anymore that it was evil.  She wanted
what they offered. Maybe peace lay on the other side of the pleasure
that was building within her.  Peace - or death.

She shook, and shuddered, and screamed. The chants were momentarily
drowned out in her orgasm-cry.  She felt her womb contracting, like
she was giving birth.  The cuffs felt like the restraints they had
used in the clinic, she felt the ghost of stabbing pain inside of her
as she had before. She wept for her aborted fetus. She wept for the
pain of the pleasure she had received.  She *was* a slut, not fit for
Charles, not fit for anyone.  She had sinned the sin of selfishness
and had killed her own baby. She was going to Hell.

"P-please, Father.  Please, more.  Please hurt me inside."

She wanted to hurt as much inside her sinful womb as she did in her
hurt heart.  She heard him slide on a rubber glove.  She felt three
fingers entering her...roughly, stretching her out.  She felt how they
were much more lubricious than they should have been, felt how more
lubricant, cool and very slick, was being poured over them.  She felt
a fourth finger - and stabbing pain inside as she felt herself
brutally entered. His priest's ring was still on, inside the glove,
scratching her.  

She cried out as she felt his thumb moving into his palm, and entering
her, and his whole fist pushing slowly, steadily inside her, entering
her completely, filling her up.  She felt the hard metal ring inside
her threatening to pierce her womb.  She cried out as white fire
rushed through her, and pain screamed out from her unholy sex.  He
twisted the fist within her.  She sobbed, over and over feeling years
of pain leaving her, feeling her sin finally flowing out of her, not
from her tears, but from the hard cleansing fire in her loins, lifting
up out of her, released into the universe. She loved the hurt, because
it was bringing her ecstasy and she felt the pure cleansing fire of
God's hate burning the sin out of her.  She felt as though that fire
lasted for hours, but it was in reality not very long before the
gentle hand of Brian touched her neck and he told her to push him out.

She bore down, and he felt her powerful muscles moving his hand slowly
out, pushing out, rebirthing herself as she did.  No more tears now,
just sweat and snot and pussy slime.  She lay, drained now, until she
felt something warm spilling onto her back, warm rain that seemed to
be just like the holy water, but somehow different. Where it fell, she
felt renewed and pure.

She lay, empty, still bound.  "Take, drink....this is my blood." Brian
whispered to her, and she licked his fingers clean, tasting some of
the blood from her womb.  She shivered as she felt pure light fill her
up.   She felt blessed. "Take, eat, for this is my body." Brian said,
and she licked his fingers clean once again, tasting his salty seed
from his second baptism.  Released from her bonds, she curled into a
fetal ball, and he held her against his rough wool cassock.  For the
first time in so long, she slept, in peace. 

***

In the morning, her nakedness no longer a source of shame but now a
true holy garment, she heard his voice talking to someone. "Yes, I
know it's a change - but Episcopalian isn't that far from Catholic.  I
know. Yes...I feel it true.  I know that it's not the same. Yes. But I
have found something that I thought I had forever missed.  John, I
don't care what I have to do.  I want to be a priest." He said
quietly, his eyes smiling back at her.  She felt sanctified as he
touched her now after the phone call, now, what was once unholy was
now rapturous.  They made love now, not as Father and supplicant, but
as two lovers, reborn.    

*** 

Many days later, he walked up the steps of the chapel at the seminary,
towards the office.  In the palm of his hand was a little silver
heart, unlocked - a sign that he would see his sweet Angelina again. 
Father John asked why he had decided to seek out his vocation once
more. "I was touched by an angel, I believe, Father," he said.
