Chapter 12 #2
We received a blessing from Father Benedict, who mumbled something incoherent from the book of John.
At the very least, the man was a love and light sort of priest and not a hellfire and suffering sermon-giver.
We’d experienced both here at Altar Church, and while as entertaining the latter was, the former was easier to tune out and ignore.
As I typically did during homilies, I found a nice slab of stained glass to stare at and let my mind wander like Bernard through the woods. Sitting to my left in a vanilla-scented cloud was Sister Lilith, who leaned over and whispered, “I enjoy John.”
My stained-glass trance broken, I shifted in the pew. “Who’s John? You like a man?”
Sister Lilith covered her giggle with her hand and glanced at the pew in front of us where Reverend Mother, Sister Pandorian, and Sister Delilyx listened intently to our confession-day blessing.
Typically, we’d sit with them, but right before Father Benedict took the stage, Sister Pandorian had spilled a cup of tea she’d snuck in for Sister Delilyx.
They scurried to clean it before Reverend Mother noticed, but to be safe from both the hot beverage and the hot-headed prioress, I’d guided Sister Lilith to sit one row back with me.
“The book of John from the bible,” she clarified. “You know, the whole sermon happening right now? John is my favorite of the gospels of christ.”
“You have a favorite disciple of jesus?”
“Don’t you?”
I snorted. “Sure, I pick Judas.”
Lilith hit my arm, the contact blooming a smile on my face. “You’re the worst nun.”
“Some might say I’m a demon.”
“Demon lips,” she whispered, her blue eyes dropping to my mouth.
Instantly wet. That’s all it took for me with this girl. God, help me. I shifted in my seat, moving a touch closer to her as Father Benedict’s monotone read scripture in the distance. “Tell me, why is John your favorite?”
Lilith glanced toward Reverend Mother nervously. I leaned in to assure her, “Veilentine is transcribing his words. See her writing away? Father Benedict likes to review his homilies once he’s finished. He preps for Sunday Mass with Wednesday’s blessing.”
Sister Lilith bit the corner of her lip and watched Reverend Mother for a moment before nodding, satisfied she wouldn’t get into trouble for speaking during the morning word from the priest. “John is the last book of the gospels and the most whimsical and romantic. The author’s style of writing is more fantastical than the earlier gospels, which are more an account of events…
John reads like a story book.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s pretty.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never thought of it that way.
” I noticed her open bible spread across her lap, and reached my hand under it to hold the spine, my knuckles brushing against her thighs.
Her soft inhale lit me ablaze and the room turned hazy.
I leaned closer over the open book. “Such lovely… verses here.” I pressed the back of my hand a fraction closer against her lap.
“Yes,” she said, her whisper a fraction breathier than before. “God’s word is… so good.”
“So good,” I purred, flipping my hand over and sliding against the fabric of her tunic and pushing in between her thighs. “Do you feel god’s presence right now, Sister Lilith?”
Father Benedict read a verse about love from the pulpit as prayer candles flickered all around him.
However, the only verses I could absorb were Sister Lilith’s small breaths.
The only gleaming heat I felt was the warmth of her thighs resting beneath a bible and too-much fabric.
I hooked my hand into the apex of her thighs, and ever so slightly, Sister Lilith parted her legs to allow me access.
“God’s touch is… heavenly,” she said. “I have felt god’s light now in the lake…
during nightly prayers… and now during a homily…
what a blessing.” Her confession was lyrical and vulnerable in a way that had something stirring past the candle flame of prayer Lilith lit within the chamber of my heart.
It furled around me, dancing, spinning, and threatening to burn me alive with its holy fire.
My hand moved beneath the cover of her bible.
The pages spread open like her knees. Thin, soft pages like the silky skin between her thighs.
Tiny, printed words mirroring her little, imperceivable whimpers as I stroked against her pussy.
I fought to sit up straight, to look forward, to stay a good little nun, sitting in a pew next to her Sister in Christ.
However, like Lilith had said, I was a bad nun.
I was a bad nun with my own form of worshiping the divine.
Divinity to me was the pulse of Sister Lilith’s pussy.
The only prophecies I’d ever been privy to were the swing of women’s hips and the dip of their cleavage.
God created women, and he may as well have created them for me and me alone with the fervor of which I adored everything about them.
Then, god—or maybe even the devil—had sent this perfect angel of a woman, naked into my woods.
As if she were Eve stumbling nude through the Garden of Eden.
If she were Eve and I were Adam, I’d reached for the fruit of her tree and I’d tasted.
I’d tasted her plush breasts and I’d drank from the well of the nectar within her pussy, and oh, that was worship.
How could god be displeased with a pure display of religious ceremony?
No matter what my old convent said.
No matter what an old, mistranslated book said.
These touches could never be a sin.
Not for me and I hoped not for Sister Lilith, either.
Father Benedict instructed us to bow our heads in prayer. Mine already was as I watched Sister Lilith’s bible move up and down from the tilt of my thrusts against her center.
Her eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted. “You’re an angel,” I whispered. “An angel receiving the glory of god in its highest.”
As the priest prayed.
So did we.
And as he concluded his petition to god with amen.
Much the same, Lilith and my earnest plea answered in a final, hard rock of her hips as she gripped the corners of her bible. She bowed her head, breathing deeply and said, “Amen.”
I replied lowly, only staring at her. “Amen.”