Chaos in Paradise

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “You could stay here and we would remain as we have been. You could go South, and I will hate myself forever if you do. Or, we could marry. I love you enough for a thousand marriages.”

  “Marry? You would marry me?”

  “It would be looked at strangely, yes. But no one argues with a priest, least of all me. As long as we observe the rituals no one will think anything is suspect, and even the rituals can be altered as I please.”

  “What rituals do we observe?” I ask.

  “The law requires a woman’s confession before marriage, and if necessary a purification. The marriage requires your utmost faithfulness to me. If you waver from that in any way, there are means of redemption, but the pain of it would be horrendous and, no, I wouldn’t want to put you through that. If you marry me then you give up other men, and serve me alone.”

  “Is the severity of a purification determined by the content of the confession?”

  “Yes, it is. But I could …”

  “No, you would not give me less than what I’ve earned!” I lash at him. “I will not make you a dishonest man for me. If there is anyone in this Utopia that knows the true heart and sexual nature of its Brannoch priest, it is me. You won’t compromise yourself for me.”

  He looks grim. Though his eyes smolder under his heavy lids, I see a wince of pain and his sorrow.

  “Then, likely you will find your purification as severe as any I’ve ever ordered—as severe as any sexual punishment you’ve taken from a lover. Depending on what you tell me, I’d be wise to consult the old texts to determine the fair amount. And, I believe there’s a provision in the books regarding a priest’s own bride. Your purification would need to be witnessed by a jury to make certain that it is fairly applied.”

  “A jury of other priests?”

  “Likely one, and the Provincial Lord.”

  “Would you administer it?”

  “That wouldn’t be necessary.”

  I look around the office stacked messily with papers and books. “And we live here?”

  “Yes. There’s a place in the woods that would be suitable. It’s part of the sanctuary.”

  “I’d be giving up my home?”

  “You’d be living with me. I’m not sure you could stay in Utopia otherwise considering the charges against you.”

  “Regarding Mariel?”

  He nods.

  “Charges you filed?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Life is ironic, don’t you think?”

  “Very.”

  “How can you live with that?” I ask.

  “I haven’t had the irony thrown in my face quite so profoundly as I’ve had these last few months.” He waits anxiously while I consider this strange proposal of marriage.

  “I’d be really foolish to do this, Keven,” I finally say, “but I still love you. And I will marry you.”

  I’ve startled him.

  “Yes, I’ll marry you with one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “You make love to me here. Now.”

  “Here?”

  “In the confessional.”

  His eyes lighten strangely. “You want to mock my sanctuary?”

  “Yes, I want to mock your sanctuary and your title and everything in this stupid world that keeps two people that love each other away from what’s in their hearts. I will marry you, and go through your confession and your purification with no restraints. I’ll do it because I love you. But I do mock this world of yours and I won’t be dishonest about it.”

  He’s silent. I’m sure appalled.

  “Make love to me, Keven Brannoch, declare yourself now, you bastard, or I’m gone. My bag is packed already, I’ll move South by nightfall.”

  When he says nothing, I start to rise. But then I feel steely fingers reach out and crush my flight. Looking at his face I see an odd glimmer in his eye and then a smile that mocks me.

  “You’ll go no where tonight, but to my confessional, bitch,” he says restraining his voice, though I can feel the fire behind it, and the energy that surges in his groin.

  Inside me, my heart leaps for joy. This is truly the most reckless thing I’ve ever been about, but perhaps the sexiest. In a minute, I’m followed down the chapel stairs and quickly spirited away toward the small rooms where penitent women declare themselves. He’ll see one hell of a declaration this night, and meet it with one of his own.

  ***

  I sit on the hard chair I’ve complained about to Knowland, and almost laugh. Teagan is humming something as she moves before me, lost in her beguiling reverie. There is a drum beating somewhere in the chapel, a low melodious beat, perhaps the choir is practicing.

  Teagan picks up that beat and drives it into her loins, to that hot spot between her legs. I can almost see it pulse as she begins to writhe. Her hips undulate moving inside the flimsy material of her skirt. I can’t take my eyes from her belly or the triangle of her sex below it. She dangles her arms in front of her, and her fingers move, as though she drawing me inside her. She’s never danced for me quite like this before, like there is the devil living inside her bones, and she’s bringing him out for me to see. I think she’s right, she is confessing her sins now. I think if she could, she’d show me every sin of her sexual indulgence—but then that would be impossible. There’s just her and me and no one else around. She would bring all her former lovers into this booth and dangle them before my eyes the way she does her hands.

  What a satire of paradise! And I agree with everything she throws in my face—at least my cock agrees. My self-indulgent phallus is hard, throbbing in my pants. I wonder how my slut plans to unveil the thing.

  Pulling her blouse apart her naked breasts appear swaying in the shimmering light of candles burning in the small room. The damp air makes her nipples tighten. I could easily bury my mouth between them and suckle them until morning. She must see the excitement on my face. Lazily drawing her skirt up her legs, she takes her time as though she has all night to show herself to me. The chair beneath me hardly seems so uncomfortable anymore as I hear this crude confession of lust. My eyes are drawn from her calves, to the hint of pubic hair, to those inner thighs with the sweat trickling down the insides like tiny rivers. My cock jolts again as the sight of her puss comes into view. She takes her finger to her labia and parts them so I see the rigid bar between, all purple and swollen. Rubbing that nasty clit, I see her eyes as they disconnect from me and she’s going inside herself on a pleasurable wave. Her performance turns into something less contrived. I sense her spasm by the way she shivers, and her juice coats her hands, while a sensuous and guttural language caresses my ears.

  I draw her to me and force her hands away, making her dance on my fingers.

  “Your hands behind your head,” I whisper the command and she obeys.

  Her body’s in charge of the cum, while I’m in charge of her. She listens for orders making certain that this is just as much my confession as it is hers. I feel the orgasm rock her, the pain of her body tensing tightly, and then as she relaxes. When she leans on me limply, I continue to play with her crotch, making sure she won’t miss even one pulse of pleasure.

  “Go down on me, bitch,” I tell her and she drops to her knees. Kissing the dirt at my feet, she looks up at me, and with a pair of smudged lips smiles with a look that comes from every man’s fantasy—she’s a hardcore criminal and doesn’t care. “Suck my cock.”

  Once she springs me free, I have my hand on the back of her head, forcing her mouth over my the prick, making her suck it deeply without taking a breath. Teagan hardly fights. She likes this confession too. While she works my shaft with one hand, the other cups my balls, rolling them in her palm. The sac tightens and her hot wet mouth takes my dick head in her throat. Drawing it out, she winds her tongue along the popping veins until she’s ready to drive the prick inside again. As she jerks me franticly, I start to gasp, picking my hips slightly from the chair. She creates a rhythm that makes me think
of her undulating before me, her breasts bobbing against her chest. I think of them being tied, of me screwing her with my fist, of stringing her up in the purification chamber and running a lash over every inch of skin until I finally decide to strike.

  As my cum splashes in her mouth, she withdraws the prick to watch it spew its last shots. They land on her amoral little smile, and her depraved lips and her shameless chin, and then drip down to her chest.

  “Ah, what will I do with you now?” I moan.

  She purrs, sliding her hands along my thighs, “tie me in your purification chamber and whip my ass. That was what you’re thinking, aren’t you?”

  “As if you deserve it?”

  “In your eyes, I surely do, my dear priest.”

  “You’re going to marry me?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’ll whip you soon enough, you’ll wait for that.”

  She is satisfied. And I think I have my domain back in my own hands, even though I have a feeling that what we just did in my confessional will haunt me for a good many days. It might just rock my world beyond its ability to repair.

  There’s a room adjacent to my office. That’s where we spend the night.

  ***

  “We made love in my confessional last night, and this morning in the purification chamber.” Knowland looks at me awed, though there is his scruffy smile appearing from his gloom.

  “Then you beat her before the fact?”

  “No, I refused her that much. I did strip her naked and took her against the cross, lifted her thighs in my hands and held her to it while I screwed her cunt until she screamed. Battered her poor backside a bit, but she didn’t care.”

  “And you defile your sanctuary?” he wonders.

  “Who defines it as defilement?” I argue.

  “Not me, friend. I hope you’re not asking for absolution for your crimes and hers. I am certainly no man to give it.”

  “She’ll pay for hers,” I tell him.

  He chuckles. “And you will, like me, go merrily along quietly defying what you’ve been taught, hoping your world won’t come crumbling to its feet when it finds out how its Brannoch priest mocks the conjugal laws.”

  “She is just days from being my wife.”

  He nods. “I hope Utopia will survive this marriage. Its Brannoch priest is marrying a well-used whore from the South, a known corrupter of young women. I can’t wait to hear the rest of her story.”

  “I can’t tell you what she tells me in the confessional,” I remind him.

  Knowland looks at me surprised.

  “Oh? So the bitch is going to make you an honorable man now?”

  “I have no clue. But I won’t betray her trust. She is going to be my wife.”

  He leers at me with a twisted grin.

  “You’ve become as mad as I am.”

  “Maybe you should marry your concubine, Knowland, before someone reports the sin.”

  With that comment the twisted grin turns into a scowl. “You leave me be on that, friend,” he says pointing a damning finger my way. I suppose I’ve touched a nerve again.

  Chapter Nine

  I am petrified. I swagger like a whore in heat, strut my cunt before him and swear like a woman who’s acting like a man with too much drink in his veins. Inside me, I am queasy as though I have jellyfish in my stomach turning end to end every minute. I suppose this all has to do with giving myself up to his Utopia. I have scorned it with every breath, mocked and teased his values, his people and their short-sighted and very wrong view of human nature. I believe the rituals were instituted by men who needed to control women’s wombs and even more importantly their vaginas. They recognized the wild nature of women’s lust and feared it so, they made them scapegoats for the demise of the old orders. From what I’ve read, those civilizations were none too wholesome and might have been saved if their women had been in charge. But that is all speculation with no purpose.

  My troubles come from being scared of marrying myself to this man I love with my whole heart—his conflicts and all. He is the most fascinating creature on this planet, and his ability to take my body into ecstasy surpasses all my other lovers. It is because he pours on me such love, in such infinite measure. I will serve him with my body and my heart. My conscience is still having difficulties with this, but I will marry him and bring my baggage with me to his rooms in the sanctuary. I have no idea if this scheme can have a good ending, but I will go through with it. Strangely, I fear the confession and the purification as any young bride might. Me? A woman of unabashed appetites is afraid? Oh, but I am.

  I stare around my house, packing the last of the things that will go with me to Keven’s sanctuary. The room has an empty feel as though I’ve stripped it of its soul and purpose. The floral teacups Mariel and I drink tea from sit washed on the drainboard at the sink. I can see her now, stirring the frothy liquid after she’s poured cream in her cup and her tea’s a tawny brown like the color of her skin. I wish she could have heard the last chapter of my tales, but I hear she is married now, and has moved further north with her husband where it’s less likely she’ll have the difficulties she had here—that is if her husband gives her what she requires. I pressed Keven as much as I could for information about her purification, but he won’t say a word. It is a professional custom he takes seriously and he scolded me, telling me not to ask him about his work again. I suppose we are destined not to know everything about each other’s lives. I wonder what I’ll finally decide to tell him at my confession—the list of my Southern crimes is very long. I’m going to have to edit some of it or we’ll be there all day. I worry that either he’ll get bored or disgusted with the woman he makes his bride and decide I’m not worthy of marrying him.

  I have a room assigned to me in the sanctuary until this is over. Keven tells me we can’t have sex until after our wedding.

  ***

  She leans against the doorpost, her voluminous auburn red hair billowing like the wild mane of a lion about her round face and wide-set eyes. I think the eyes are green, but perhaps that’s just in the light that streams so brightly through the bank of square window panes at one end of my room. Certainly these eyes seduce, my poor pussy is instantly hot seeing her mellowy gaze, and then, the voluptuously rounded flesh that makes her body ooze with sexual ease.

  “You’re marrying the Brannoch priest,” she purrs.

  “I am. I’m Teagan.” We haven’t met, but I think I know who she is.

  “Queleah.”

  I don’t know how to greet her, but she certainly knows what she wants strolling into my room. She wears a blue/green shift she’s tied into a dress with a belt that defines her thin waist and shows off the way her wide hips flare beneath and her breasts surge above like great waves rising from the sea. I’m afraid I stare.

  “You know, you’ve made it damned hard for me, bitch, fucking poor Keven.”

  “You’ve been worried about him?”

  “Did he tell you that he seduced me before Knowland did?”

  “No.”

  “No, of course. He doesn’t have to tell you anything. We were lovers for a week. The shortest affair I’ve ever had—then of course I’ve been with Knowland for so many years I’ve forgotten how long it’s been. Your Brannoch priest was a dazzling lover,” she remembers back, looking into the air dreamily. “But always so troubled. During sex he was a dynamo with a dick I could hardly fit in my mouth. Then too, he liked it in my ass. I suppose that was good for me, since that’s Knowland’s favorite passion. The way he used my ass I screamed like a dying crow. I suppose I liked him sexually. I’m sure I’d still fuck him, but then whores have limits in Utopia.” I don’t care to hear more, but I suppose I will because Queleah is not about to leave. “Yes, he doesn’t have to tell you anything about his affairs, but you? You have to confess the entirety of yours. All those little sins of yours.” She finds that fascinating. “You have any idea how many people, knowing where you are from would like to listen in to tha
t confession?” She licks her lips and my pussy jolts. “I would certainly be there.” I have no clue what to say to her, though the more I listen to the sonorous sexuality in her voice, the more mesmerized I become.

  She ambles toward me, to where I sit by the window. I thought I’d be staying in some dour cubicle in the sanctuary, but this room is bright and airy with windows ajar and I can see out on the eucalyptus woods, smell that particular musk when it floats on the breeze. I’m not sure Keven understands how much I’m moved by my sense of smell. I even like the aroma of the sanctuary. It is scrubbed and polished, so that my herbs and flowers play off the cleanly scented atmosphere. Is this what holy is suppose to smell like? I catch Queleah’s fragrance as she approaches, something spicy I don’t recognize. As her hand strokes my hair, the nerve endings in my crown tingle. I could bury my face in her body, and revel in the warm breath that surrounds me. I miss the touch of hands—it’s only been three days, but I feel completely disconnected from Keven. He’s maintaining a professional distance between us.

  “You’ve had a lot of men,” her cooing plays delicately against my ears.

  “I lived in the South for many years,” is all I’ll offer her.

  “Oh, so you’re going to be coy with me.” She hums, her long nails running their way down my neck and I can’t help shivering. “Oh, we will fuck, my sweet, we will fuck. It’s my revenge on you for getting under Knowland’s skin.”

  “Me? Under Knowland’s skin? He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Oh, he knows you. He knows you very well. Your priest has hardly considered his trysts with you a private matter. Discussed in detail with my lover after they happened, I then hear quite a mouthful. I have to pry a little. And of course, Knowland wouldn’t tell me who this mystery woman fucking the Brannoch was. But now that know, I can honestly say I think I know you. We’re sluts, young lady, the bane of this Utopia’s existence. We have minds to know that the rest of the women in this domain are brutalized by their men, and we have cunts hearty enough to capture the real men for our own. There isn’t a Utopian woman that could manage a Knowland or even a Keven Brannoch. He is a nasty ass with his lovers. While everyone’s thinking he’s some delicate pansy—must be that boyish face of his—I’ve known the truth all along—and so do you, I imagine.” She sits beside be and strokes my face. “Your cheeks are so soft.”