by Poppet
“That’s a good girl. That’s a good girl.”
I repeat the mantra of praise for her surrender, her willing acceptance in a moment of clarity now that she is connected directly to the divine, to my holy touch of unblemished love, with every pump until I hotly purge euphoric blessings, worshipping the Lord together, me sanctifying her wretched flesh.
She may question this form of penance, but God requires atonement and sacrifice. He ordered bulls be slaughtered and their bloodshed on the altar. I am his living altar, her blood must coat it, and until she has given the Lord her tithing, I cannot abate.
Plunging into her, I demand, “Repeat the passage with me. His rod and his staff, they comfort me.”
Gasping, she gusts words in time to my rhythmic infiltration into the cunning vessel, “His rod and his staff comfort me.”
“Yes they do,” I emphasize, rabidly planting divinity where there is only shame and confusion.
Weakened by the exertion, with the deliverance from my body into the philistine, her muscles tighten around me, spasming a juicy offering as if crying from within for forgiveness and mercy.
“Oh god,” she gulps.
Sinking my hips thrice, for the trinity, to ensure I have expelled the last of my perfection, relishing the clench of a willing body around my benediction, she now recognizes salvation because I have planted it inside her where Satan can't corrupt it. I slide out, my duty fulfilled, patting her face with approval.
Tears slip down her alabaster cheeks, glossing freckles. Her gratitude is palpable. Why do they resist when they know how good it feels when the Holy Spirit floods the body with its infallible presence? I've coated her with it and now she weeps with joy.
“Yes, yes,” I stroke her hair, comforting the sinner. “It's a religious experience because God loves you. Are you ready to meet Christ, my child?”
“Oh Father, yes please.”
“Soon, my child. I will deliver you from your suffering soon, and you can lie with your savior in the palace of peace.”
“I would like that.”
“I’m sure you would,” I smile, covering the naked muscle coated in her scent, shielding myself with the clothing which announces my rank in God's army.
She holds my hands, lifting them, kissing my palms, then places them around her throat, forcing them to squeeze. In a moment of perverse weakness I am tempted to grant her that which she craves, but this is not the hour. Only the Lord knows the hour and time, and this is not it for he has not told me to deliver her into his waiting embrace.
Salvation is not granted until all sins have been absolved, until all penance has been exacted and the vespers of her regret reach his ears. It's the vespers he patiently awaits.
Rebuking her, I shove her against the wall, letting go of the dainty throat. “Don’t tempt me spawn of Satan. My Lord will let me know when it is your time.”
“Please!” she wails. Hysteria overcomes her. So pitiful and pathetic. Satan will stoop to every level to con the devout into aiding his escape. “Please! Send me to be with my savior. Father forgive me! I am delivered. See?”
She rips off her grubby vest with a wail, her beseeching smile seeming like a gnash of teeth. Her breasts have shrunk to the size of tangerines and her ribs distort the skin with bony deformity. She is indeed almost ready. She rejects her clothing, willing to be naked before God, ready for sackcloth and ashes.
“Patience sweetheart, the Lord is the keeper of time. Don’t make the error of rushing his will.”
I so want to send her to heaven, but God has not yet spoken.
I am, after all, a mere servant of the most high. I do his bidding, and nothing more. It would serve these possessed bodies well to understand that.
Twenty-three’s final lesson will be the patience of Job. Everything has been taken from her, but the Lord heals and restores all in his good time. He works in mysterious ways and I will not doubt his wisdom for he has bestowed on me his protection and eternal love.
The lost he sends to me are here according to His will. They shall leave when He summons them.
When He commands, I rejoice in his rapturous presence, I grow in the ecstasy of his glory, I am made the blunt tool for him to work through when I cast them into his arms. He is the fisherman catching them in his net, and I am merely the hook to lure his bait home. I am blessed and in return I give him my unwavering devotion.
He has not sent me a replacement for 23, so she must remain. When the seventy-two cells are not filled, the Lord sees that it is not good. When they are filled to capacity, he is pleased.
I live to please him.
Bending down I bestow on the waif a wary kiss, a blessing, relishing her brief trust in me. Naked before God, before her church, before her judge, I make her righteous and ready.
She kneels before me and I close my eyes to pray for her soul, finding a subliminal contentment in the tender strokes and licks of her mouth when she kisses the altar of her savior.
It only takes two to make a church. An altar and a temple, easy, perfect, divine balance. She kisses it tenderly, loving it the way I used to kiss the foot of Christ after worship. Taking me fully in her mouth, I rest against the wall for strength, my thighs weak with worship.
Sweet heaven!
Praise to you.
~ Chapter 2 ~
The people who live in darkness will see a great light
~ Matthew 4: 16
Preacher John:
Despite my meticulous attendance to my duties and my willingness to prove my allegiance to the Lord through devotion and servitude, there are times when anger simmers.
I am ashamed of the pleasure. I can't help it, it sneaks in when the Holy Spirit descends on me, filling my body with fire, sending my mind soaring and my muscles engorging with the euphoric high of the Lord's presence.
I know I am the vehicle of his will, it is Him filling her with his love, not me, but now I will smell her when I shower. I am persecuted by the abuse of being surrounded with such constant sin. It is relentless. The only consolation is knowing Christ was tempted too.... yes, I am indeed the chosen one.
Our Father murdered the firstborn sons of the enemy; it was just and it was righteous. Bitter because I need more, I stalk to chamber 66. I shall Passover the sinners and bless them with blood.
Dragging the lamb by the rope; it bleats pitifully, its rickety legs constantly caving. I found her standing outside the Devil's Cesspit, wobbling unsteadily on gaudy gold stilettos, a sequined mini-dress advertising her wares to every sinner walking the sidewalk. Her face is painted and she stoops so low as to cover her nails with the color of a harlot who knows her soul is beyond redemption.
Halting outside Evan's cell I draw the hunting knife, slicing her throat, smiling at her frozen horror when I hold her up to stare into her eyes as she bleeds out, slicing into the cheek, slipping it seductively into her mouth, cutting the lips and coating her teeth with the sweet stench of sacrifice.
Inebriation flees in the moment of death and it makes me laugh how those drunk on sin only become sober in the moment of their judgment.
Dropping the bloodied lamb, I unlock Evan's door, punching the door wide to stare at the converted occupant of cell sixty-six.
Crooning softly at the wild-eyed man, I beckon him close, “Shhh. Come to me, take the wafer of your communion.”
His arms are riddled with the puncture marks of Ezekiel's miraculous visions. He shuffles to me, dutifully on his knees, staring up at me with exaltation. Obedient to a fault he tilts his head back, opening his mouth to accept the paper, sticking out his tongue for communion.
Petting his head, delirious with the pleasure of seeing such a mighty man kneel before me in adoration, so meek and mild, it reminds me of the lion lying down with the lamb. This is the New Jerusalem, inside these walls is the tent of the Lord, and here we are the chosen.
Smiling when he sucks my fingers, accepting his LSD, I decide to give him the lamb. Let them lie together. Twisting, relucta
nt to leave my slave, I bend to snag the harlot's ankle, dragging her in, dipping my fingers in her blood to sign my son with the mark of salvation and grace.
Nudging him toward her, I leave the bottle of vodka next to his water bowl. They are swine until they accept redemption. Gently stroking his stubbled cheeks, I itch to take the razor to his face, to mark him with the sigils that were holy to Moses. God gave them to Moses and Solomon stole them for his own collection, using them to summon angels while divining with God.
Evan looks like the kind of man who could wear the ephod with charisma. On him it would look like the armor of a gladiator. Yeah, let us build God's army and run riot through the streets of Sodom doing his duty. The first thing required by a warrior is a virgin to pillage. When God waged war on our enemies, the warriors of Israel fucked every last one of those bitches, leaving them dead when they were finished, keeping the young ones for their harems.
“Evan, fuck her. Fuck her until her blood coats your cell. Make this your altar, sanctify it with this sacrifice. I promise I will come back with your virgin.”
Patting his thick hair, amazed at the humble manner of my Goliath, I whisper, “You will be the first, and you shall lead us to victory. You will be one to command a righteous army.”
His eyes are wild again, his hands closing around his head when the screams begin.
She will be destroyed when I return with his virgin. If I am to have an army I must plunder the village myself.
Oh Father, your ways are indeed mysterious and fulfilling.
Kneeling after shutting Evan's door, locking him in with the lamb so the lion can rip apart the docile, I splay prostrate, kissing the stone floor of God's new kingdom on Earth.
Preacher John has entered into the hallowed halls of his destiny.
“Thank you Father, I am your humble servant and will do whatever you think is fit.” Rocking, crying myself now with the rapture of the vision, I stare up at the bright light, a hanging bulb where the presence of God makes himself known. Flooding the corridor with the brilliance of the Lord's presence. I rock, laughing, holding my hands up to the blessed glory.
“Mortal man, arise!” booms to me from up high, and my legs tremble when I stand, soaring into the light of my God. He elevates my spirit to the angels. He will refill me with his smiting anger so I can hunt for his temple.
Evan needs a virgin. I need a virgin. God needs a virgin.
“God help me, but where will I find one?”
The mall? But of course! They hang out at the mall, being tempted by the kitsch wares of lascivious and wanton rituals.
Rhapsody fills my body with courage and I stumble in an attempt to stand, clutching my bible and painting myself with the lamb's blood. When I am triumphant I shall rename Evan – Ezekiel. He has seen the Lord's chariot, he has been touched by the fire of the seraphs, he is my first chosen, my firstborn son.
•
66: Evan:
Jesus fucking christ!
The zealot is back. I can hear the fucktard on the other side of the door. Camping in the corner, I'm conflicted. Should I try to take him? He flings the door with a mighty heft when he opens it, making standing behind it to ambush the fanatic, moot.
Fuck! Fuck!
He keeps that tazer on him. I hate that I didn't think when that fucktard got sanctimonious with me. The second I stepped up in his face he zapped my nervous system straight to hell, and I woke up in the darkest level of it with a scalpel disfiguring my penis.
Christ almighty! The deranged bastard was so calm, chatting away while metal and leather kept me immobile, the lights warping in and out of focus with undulating clarity.
“Even the slaves in the Lord's camp must be circumcised. God welcomes you Evan. You are supremely blessed to be chosen.”
Scuffling; the shriek of a wounded animal beyond the boundary of my cell, it shatters the reverie, bringing me back to the immediate threat of bodily harm. Take him, or play the game? I... I... hell's fucking bells...!
Fuck, he's unlocking the door.
Terror roils my gut, sending a seizure of pain into my stomach, collapsing me with another panic attack. Shaking, clenching, riding the wave of agony, the door flings wide, barely missing my knees. Forcing myself to sit up and meet him like a man, the wafer in his hand spikes ice down my vertebra.
Oh hell no! No!
Not the fucking hallucinations again.
I'm his prophet and he scribbles every one of my sojourns into his induced sanity, recording my hell, praising me when I finally come down from the diabolical trip into acid heaven. The bastard took a fucking blade to my dick, he mutilated my identity, my manhood, making me his bitch. The day I get a window of opportunity I'm going to show him just how prolific the bleeding of a real bitch is. I'm going to bend him over and castrate the motherfucker.
•
67: Jeremiah
I hear him clattering down the corridor and I pray it is not for me he comes. He calls himself Preacher John but he doesn’t look like a preacher to me.
Alan and me had just had a fight in the bar when I walked out and saw a startlingly handsome man, stark brown eyes and long flowing tresses. He stopped toking on his cigarette and smiled.
“Mind if I bum one?” I had smokes of my own, but wanted to flirt with him.
God help me I wanted to make Alan jealous. That’s all. I wasn’t really going to cheat.
He handed me the opened pack, one sticking out in phallic perfection for me to take, and as our hands touched I felt something there: something electric. He even lit it for me, which I took as an encouraging sign. I drew the smoke deep into my lungs, hinting at my skills, and was instantly lightheaded.
He shouted me back to consciousness, and I came to in a raw stone chamber. It was beautiful, ancient stonework, that for a naïve moment I thought it was his romantic shag den.
“Spawn of hell! It is an abomination for a man to lie with another man. The Satan of homosexuality is strong in you.”
Candlelight revealed little of my surroundings. My hands were bound, my legs weak and useless. I couldn’t get them under me as he dragged me to an altar. He punched me in the face, then plunged my head in a basin filled with holy water.
It stung my eyes, every tissue in my face cried out for relief. And yet that was not the worst.
He threw me in this cell with only a bible for company. I pushed it to the wall with my toes, nudging it far away from me.
The words my mother read to me as a child entered my mind: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He leads me beside the still waters.”
No comfort dwells here. The rod and the staff bring harm, not joy. How can that man call himself a preacher?
The door clanged open later. Hours later, days later, I do not know.
He brought a woman with him, broken and bruised, teetering on the edge of consciousness.
“She is for you.”
“I don’t . . .”
He rewarded my insolence with a knuckle kiss to the temple, bombing my ability to focus, stunning me to lie helplessly in a pit of suffering.
“We must exorcise the Satan from you. You will take her.”
Sobbing crept up on me, and for a while I french kissed hysteria. I looked at the ruined body before me. The head lolled loosely on the neck, the eyes blank and staring at nothing. Crusty drool decorated the corners of its mouth.
Even if I was into women, I didn’t want this one. I happen to love my partner. So much for god being 'all about the love'.
I wanted my Alan. I wanted my freedom.
“No,” I pleaded.
But he made me. So I got angry.
She just laid there as I fucked her, taking my rage, taking my venom, taking my sin. I vomited. It was like being raped in my soul, deep where it mattered, where the holiness of my own sanctity hides.
“Yes, my son! Bestow your sins upon her! Purge your filth into her womb! It is better that a man should empty his gift into the belly of a whore than to spill
it on the ground.”
He made sure I finished before he hauled her body away. I’m not even sure she was still alive when I finished, sick to my soul and ashamed.
So I hear him coming down the hall, and I hope he has not brought me another to absolve my sodomizing sins.
Fuck a brick but the man can go off on a righteous rant describing the blasphemy of Sodom – before god toasted it with his nuclear bomb that is. Such a loving god, so full of compassion and mercy. I don't share his appetite for destruction. The almighty dude clearly invokes the same sex gene – so by Preacher John's logic – that would make his perfect god an abomination. If I am made in god's image and I'm defective, then that makes god defective too. God's a gay man John. He loves everyone equally. Men too. And the gospels even say they kissed each other in greeting. [Colossians 1:26]
Homophobic prick! I bet at midnight John dons his KKK outfit to go lynching. The prejudice of the 'saved' never fails to sicken me. At first I wanted to die. Something happened to me though, as if by going against my nature and instinct I invited darkness into my heart. Call it a Satan... or whatever you will. It haunts, it fills me with dread, it makes me fear living.
I want to live for one reason. I want to see that sadist suffer for what he has done to me.
There is clattering in the hall and then the door to the next cell gongs open. I hear muffled voices but can’t make out what they say. Closing my eyes I'm relieved he did not come for me, yet enraged that he came for anyone. How many of us are there?
I’ll find out. I’ll find a way.
I haven’t prayed, or anything like it, in years, but with my eyes shut I whisper:
“Jesus, God, or whoever you are up there, please help me get loose and kill this motherfucker. Injeesusnameamen.”
On chapped knees, resting on my scabs, I face the filthy mattress infested with mites and decades of pain. The smell is rank, like the desperation that coats my skin in chilled sweats and nightmares.
