Mr. Lohrman flipped through the previous year’s yearbook, seeking inspiration for whom else to vent about. It didn’t take long before he found a viable target. He entered the words “WMHS prayer circle” in the box. Like the other groups he’d entered, they had no pre-existing profile, and so he took the liberty for creating one for them.
“The prayer circle, the prayer circle... where to begin with this pack of hypocrites? Once a week like clockwork, these kids get together to pray around the flagpole (like there’s some kind of connection between Jesus and America). They pray for the Sick, the Poor, the Foreigners, and the sad, beleaguered Unpopular. As soon as they’re done praying, they go right back to lying, cheating, shunning and whoring.
That’s right – WHORING. The one or two boys who fluctuate in or out are clearly only there to get close to the debutantes who populate meetings regularly. The girls play at being demure and untouchable, but the truth is they get wet for any boy who will swear a pledge of chastity. Just flash them a crucifix and watch them beg for sex. They’re not the biggest sluts in the school, I’ll grant, but perhaps only due to their exclusivity to their fellow Christians (to whom they are entirely inclusive).”
Old Lohrman chuckled, wondering if maybe he’d been too harsh. Nah.
Mary Rollins awakened with Jesus in her heart.
It was a Sunday, the Sunday before school resumed. She said her morning prayer to petition the lord for a successful beginning to the year, and to help her bring the light of faith to those who needed an example of good Christian living. She thought of all those heathen brutes, the lecherous boys, whorish girls, the iniquitious homosexuals, the liars and cheaters and covetous indigents. She pitied these poor sinners even as she was filled with righteous contempt for their sins.
Like every other Sunday, she readied herself in time for the 7:00 mass. She scrubbed herself meticulously, brushed her long, chestnut hair until it gleamed, and chose a dress that conveyed her desire to look respectful of the church while still being bright enough to show her joy in praising her savior. It wasn’t like those slutty Catholic school dresses that were essentially parodies of themselves; this was tasteful. Demure.
Her mother and father inspected her, and while her father complained that the dress was too small – “our daughter’s knees are practically showing, Martha!” – her mother said she had just grown a few inches since getting it, and perhaps it would be all right this one last time before they passed it on to goodwill. They packed in the car, tuning into a Christian radio station to help inspire their faith as they headed on to worship. It was a Sunday like any other.
It was when she got to church that she began to have thoughts that were... funny.
Outside the building was an enormous cross, easily twenty feet high. Mary usually liked to look on it and imagine the selfless sacrifice made for her as she passed beneath it into the church, but today she just looked at it and saw...
A penis.
She had never noticed it before, but there was something awfully phallic about it, wasn’t there? It was like a big, upside-down penis and the cross-arms represented the balls. It was sort of like how one would look if a man were on his hands and knees, and his engorged penis were hanging down beneath him. What pose did they call that? Missionary? That sounded right to Mary. She smiled brightly, remembering how long she had been considering assuming a missionary position. Today though, she found herself thinking about it through a new filter, lying there on her back, legs spread, a man thrusting his holy symbol in and out of her flesh as had been commanded – Go forth and multiply.
It sounded wholly holy. Holes. Penises.
“Mary?” Mrs. Rollins snapped her fingers in her daughter’s face, breaking Mary’s reverie. Or distracting her somewhat; the idea never really left. The girl was a virgin, of course – she had made a chastity pledge in fifth grade that she did not intend to break until she was ready to conceive a child with her future husband.
Somehow, though, it was almost like she was having an epiphany, a realization of her calling. As she absent-mindedly shuffled into the church, her mind swam with visions of a life spent spreading her legs for her fellow Christians, of being a vessel of divine purpose, fulfilling the command made to her gender to make more little Christians. And more and more. All night, every night. Maybe some in the daytime, too.
Mary doggedly tried to pay attention to the service, muttering the Latin at the required times. She had never before noticed just how many crucifixes there were in church, each a burning bush whispering her god’s newly discovered eleventh commandment, filling her with longing. Beneath her dress, her panties began to moisten as her body readied itself for this mission. There were only a few dozen people in attendance for the early mass, most of them very elderly, but that was fine. She let her fantasy carry her along. There was no penis too old for her to accept – while a younger, more attractive man might be more satisfying, her calling was to serve all of God’s children who had been baptized and confirmed in the church.
As the scent of her secretions reached her nostrils, she wondered if her fellow parishioners could detect her readiness to be consecrated. Surely they could sense her need. How could they not be running to her to offer to help her with this holy duty? Her face was flushed from just imagining lying on the altar, while man after man accepted the host and the wine, then spurted their holy seed into her waiting vagina.
Hmm, perhaps that was it, she thought. Perhaps I simply seem to like too pristine of a girl to invite such behavior. Perhaps they mistook her namesake as the virginal Holy Mother, rather than what she now knew was its true origin, the prostitute Mary Magdalene. Was there some way to inform them that she was the whore of God? Maybe she needed to begin to think like a whore. A whore would never call it a “penis” or a “vagina” - those were the terms they used in sex education class at school. (She half-remembered thinking those lessons vulgar in the extreme, but now she was grateful for the understanding.)
So what could she do? Mary’s lust was fast leaving the realm of want and entering into dire need. I need a penis in me! Wait, no, I need a... dick. Yes, a DICK. A big, hard, DICK. In my vaginal canal? No no, in my... Hmm. She tried to remember. Was a hooter a breast, or...? Cooch. Yes, cooch, that’s where I need it. She remembered her friend using that term once, amid squeals of giggling for her profanity.
The floodgates opened, and she was stunned to realize the extent of her vocabulary – vulgar comments from her peers, steamy monologues she accidentally witnessed on late night cable, the porno she had watched on a dare in 9th grade, words scratched into bathroom stalls in unisex gas station restrooms...
Vagina. Cooch. Coochie. Pussy. Enter my pussy. With dicks. Fornicate at me. Penetrate me. Penetrate my wet pussy. Fuck. FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK. That word resonated loudly. Fuck my pussy. Fuck me with your gigantic cock. Fuck my whore slit, ravage my under-loved snatch. FUCKING FUCK MARY’S CUNT–
Her father shook her, looking concerned, as it was time to go up to the altar for communion. She snapped out of it, rising on wobbly legs to propel herself toward the altar. Father Davis was administering it this morning. He looks so handsome in his little uniform, Mary thought. And... OMG is that a CRUCIFIX around his neck?! She tried to stifle a whimper of unbridled lust as she looked ahead at the man, framed by crosses on the altar and with a silver one suspended around his neck.
Then the full extent of his appeal struck her. Here was a man who’d not just made some wimpy chastity pledge – he’d full-out sworn to never love a woman again. Nothing had ever sounded so erotic to her before. A chaste man. He probably hasn’t touched a woman in his whole life – or if he did, it’s been decades. He’s right in front of me. I... just have to...
And that was when Mary slapped the cup out of his hands and jumped on him, wrapping her long legs around his waist and kissing him. There was a name for this kind of kiss, with the tongue and all... French, she thought. They should call it a Latin kiss because men who speak Biblical Latin are SO FUCKING SEXY!
Father Davis plainly didn’t know what to do about the sudden sexual assault from the once-immaculate girl who was grinding her body on his. Her plump breasts squashed against his chest as she wriggled up and down, humping him with abandon. “Fuck me, Father Davis! Please, fuck me! I’ll be so good to you, just please say you’ll fuck me. I want your cock in me so badly, I’ll do anything...”
The congregation was stunned. Some fled in horror and disgust, and some stayed and watched out of pure voyeurism. Father Davis, with the help of Mr. and Mrs. Rollins, succeeded in disentangling the girl from him, though she continued pleading for him to fuck her, using increasingly vulgar terms to entice him. Mary was in the middle of hastily unbuttoning her dress to display her body to him when her parents finally physicall dragged her from the altar, out the doors and into the car.
As they drove home, the lust slowly left her. She began to realize what she’d done, but felt no remorse. She knew that chastity was a virtue, but she also knew that, when it came down to it, as soon as she finished praying for forgiveness (at her parents’ insistence), she fully intended to resume whoring herself out to any seeming Christian who wanted her. But where to find one? Where to find one who would REALLY satisfy a total slut – but an exclusively Christian slut, she resolved – like her?
At length, she convinced her parents to let her return to church to apologize and to attend confession. “It was this really, really stupid dare from a girl at school, and I know it was wrong and I’m very penitent. Please, Mother, Father, let me beg for” she hesitated only a fraction of a second “forgiveness. I need to feel God inside me again.” God, cock, whatever, she thought, restraining a smile.
After another long lecture to be sure they impressed upon her how disappointed they were and how scandalous such a thing could be for the whole family – and a promise to contact the parents of the young woman who had even thought up such a dare – they consented. Her father dropped her off and said he would return in four hours, and to use the extra time in prayer and reflection. She kissed his cheek, hugged him, and went back in.
It was evening now, and the chapel was mostly empty but for a few widows lighting candles. Father Davis was still present, though he turned crimson the moment he saw her. Mary could care less. Once more in the presence of all these little symbols of sex, her need had reignited. It was hard to walk when she wanted so badly to fall to her knees, flip up her dress and invite him to mount her like the little bitch in heat she now knew she really was.
“Good afternoon, Father,” she intoned as she approached him.
“And to you, Mary. Look, ah, about this morning...” He was at a loss for words, and unable to make eye contact.
“Could we speak in private, Father?” The priest gave her a wary look. “Please, I need to apologize – before I confess, of course – and it’s hard to talk about here. Please?” She batted her eyelashes innocently.
He fell for it. In his office, he promptly seated himself in his chair, using his desk as a barrier. Though he had deliberately left it open, Mary closed it. Before she turned to face him, she grabbed the bottom of her dress and tugged it off over her head. She knew she was pretty; boys flirted with her all the time. Two tear drops, still too new to the world to show sag, clung to her chest, and she had taken time before returning to shave her pussy completely bald, reasoning a man who did the work of the Lamb of God might prefer a more innocent look.
He rose to his feet, backing up until he hit the wall, then moving laterally along it until he was trapped in the corner. He looked like a gazelle before a lioness.
“I really need you to fuck me, Father Davis.” She stepped towards him. He had nowhere to go, and in a room with easily a score of the phallic symbols, she could not make herself slow down.
“Mary, you... I can’t...”
“You can, Father. You can do anything to me that you want.” Closer.
He shook his head. “It’s wrong, you’re just a girl, and...”
“I turned eighteen in May, Father.” Closer.
“Still, I swore to remain impure– I mean, to remain pure...”
She moaned – it was like he knew all the hottest things to say. “That’s good, Father Davis. Because there’s nothing impure about my body. You’ll be the first man who’s ever touched it. What could be purer than that?” Another step. She was in arm’s reach now.
“No, these thoughts are... you’re so... I can’t...”
And then, Mary was pressed up against him. He didn’t even pretend to recoil. “You can’t? Well then let me.”
“Oh fuck yeah, take that you little fucking Jezebel!” Father Morris cried out as he drilled Mary’s cunt for the second time that morning. They were in the church basement in the priest’s lounge, where Mary had promised she would waiting bright and early before the morning mass. She was lying on the table where the Eucharist was normally kept between services. The girl’s ripe tits jiggled up and down as he pistoned into her prone form. They were saturated with cum; it turned out that the priests were rather pent up, and so while they waited their turn for her pussy (except for for Father Friedman, who instead took the innocence of her tight virgin ass), they jacked themselves off, marking the little slut with their seed. Father Davis, who turned out to have a bit of a perverse streak, had even gone ahead and drawn a cross into a pool of spunk on her forehead. Like Ash Wednesday, except now it was Jizz Sunday.
Mary was grateful when Father Morris flipped her to her hands and knees and resumed nailing her, now from behind. She liked being fucked like this – it was easier to see all those sexy, sexy crosses, and besides, it still smarted a bit to have her new tattoo rubbing against the varnished table.
She could hardly believe she’d gotten it – and neither could her parents, who threw her out of the house when they saw it peeking out of the the shoulders of her tanktop and demanded to see the whole thing. She hadn’t even been embarrassed to strip off her shirt in front of them – after all, they were Christians, and if they wanted to see her topless, that was their privilege. She let Mr. Rollins get a nice long look at his daughter’s well-formed tits before spinning back around to show the tattoo. (“Tit for tat!” she had said, laughing.)
It was in the shape of a cross, and occupied most of her back. It was two words in the shape of a cross, except slanted in a way to imply the object was toppling over. The tall portion of it read, from base to tip, “BABYLON,” and the cross-bar read “WHORE,” intersecting at the O. Tied to it was her own image, completely naked, a look of orgasmic bliss on her face. (Her tits were slightly exaggerated, but she figured that was OK. It was a little white lie.
The tattoo had been the suggestion of Mark, one of the boys in the prayer circle with her, who had said if she really loved God, she’d get a nice God-styled tramp stamp. She and Susan Vickers had boasted back and forth about who loved Christ enough to get the biggest one. They had gone to the tattoo parlor together, and Mary had showed her who was the most devout! Susan’s tattoo was tiny by comparison, a script reading “Who Would Jesus Do?” on her belly, an inch or two below the waistband of where a pagan girl’s jeans would be. (Christians, they had decided, had an obligation to be more available to their brethren, and showed a good deal more skin.) While they were getting inked, they took the opportunity to witness, asking the artist if he were a Christian. He had taken a long look at Mary’s bare boobs and Susan’s exposed pussy and declared himself converted. The girls beamed, and congratulated him on his rebirth in Christ with a tag-team blowjob.
Father Morris jerked her back to the present with a few hard whacks to her bare ass. “Fucking slut,” he repeated – she realized he had been saying such things the whole time he had been fucking her. She was proud to be an outlet for all of the pent-up demons inside him, to release them in such a beautiful, spiritual way. “No-good harlot, fucking temptress, take this you damned little whore!”
He emptied his balls into her pussy, flooding her insides with the warm goo that had become as familiar to her in this past week as the words of the Hail Mary. His satisfaction triggered her body’s own release, and she cried out and spasmed on his cock. It was her most intense orgasm yet, and she actually blacked out for a moment.
When she regained her senses, she saw her hands had already busied themselves in jacking off two more priests – wait, make that a priest and a bishop! – and she sighed in utter contentment. Her hands never stopped working, even as she felt a man’s hands lift her hips up and impale her dripping cunt on a fresh cock, and even as another cock occupied the whole of her field of vision, then slid without request or apology into her lips, which opened as reflexively as they did in prayer, and in the back of her mind, she wondered if this were the rapture.