The Cursed Cunt

 

“Oh yeah, cunt!” he muttered under his breath.

“Yeah, hot fucking cunt!” he continued, ogling the juicy specimen of beauty displaying herself to his lustful eyes. Her pussy was indeed beautiful – pink and delicate, with a finely-crafted blond landing-strip, held open by a pair of painted fingers, so that he could gaze into its hot, wet, steamy depths. He stroked his cock in anticipation, feeling his shaft stiffen and grow, and feeling that exquisite yearning sensation spread outwards, filling his body with testosterone-fuelled bliss.

The owner of said cunt looked at him seductively, the tip of her tongue gently tracing the outline of her lips, her eyes cheekily inviting, one hand kneading her huge, perfect, surgically-enhanced breasts, as the other continued to hold her fuck-lips wide.

“Oh, yeah, baby, I’m gonna fuck that cunt so hard,” he continued. “I’m gonna ram my fucking cock deep in your hot pussy, I’m gonna feel your juicy cunt around my cock, and then I’m gonna fucking come inside you, I’m gonna spurt all my fucking cum deep in your hot fuck-hole till you scream in pleasure. You want that, baby, you want that?”

But there was no answer from the buxom blonde beauty. For she was but a centrefold in a magazine, lying open before him on his bed. One picture among many, actually, for his eiderdown was covered with a selection of his collected periodicals, open to his favourite pages, featuring a variety of nude beauties, all displaying themselves – he liked to think – purely for his pleasure.

His cock throbbed as he stroked it, thumb and two fingers gently rubbing the glans while the palm of his hand wrapped itself around the shaft. He admired his carefully-ordered “cunt collage” – as he liked to call it. The buxom blond (“Jenny”, according to the caption) occupied pride of place in the centre of his bed. Surrounding her were half a dozen other centrefolds: “Sabrina” – dark-haired, with huge natural flowing boobs, left hand holding her pussy open whilst one delicate finger of the right curled knuckle-deep into her arsehole; “Brea” – blonde and skinny, with pert breasts, irresistibly smouldering eyes, and a shaven pussy; “Elsa” – bleached blond hair, sweet “next-door-girl” smile, hairy blonde cunt with – “oh fuck!” he muttered, as he felt his cock twitch and jerk in delight – gorgeous flappy cunt-lips which dangled, glistening with little beads of pussy-juice…

He paused his cock-stroking, looking away and upwards at the ceiling, in order to calm himself down: he didn’t want to come too soon. Not yet.

Just in time, the phone rang. Nervously he scrabbled for the receiver.

“Hi Jimmyyy!” came the sultry voice he was expecting. “It’s Bea here, wiv yer fantasy call.”

“Bea, how are you?”

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m feeling so fuckin’ horny this evening, I’m been so looking forward to our call.”

“Talk to me, Bea,” said Jimmy, as he resumed slowly massaging his dick.

“Oh, you know me, Jimmy, I just can’t get enough fuckin’. I’m sitting here on my bed, and I’m wearin’ this skimpy negligee, and I’ve shaved my pussy just for you – and it’s so fuckin’ wet, Jimmy, I just can’t wait for you to ram yer big cock in there. D’ya wanna do that, Jimmyyy?” Bea’s voice was warm and breathy – something she had practised and honed over the months she had been calling him. Jimmy knew that, these days, he could instead be watching a video online, or a camgirl – but he was a man of habit and tradition, and he loved the way things used to be when he was younger, when porn was always magazines, and audio invariably meant the telephone. And so he sat at the head of his bed, stroking his cock, listening to Bea’s breathy seductive personalised filth, whilst he continued to ogle his favourite magazine nudes.

As Bea spoke, his eyes continued to roam the pages spread open on the bed: “Codi” – a ridiculously slender blonde with big fake tits, pouting lips drooling slightly at the sight of her own shaven cunt, spread wide with two delicate hands; “Emma” – on all fours, so her pussy peeped cheekily out from between her buttocks, crowned by a tight puckered arsehole…

Bea was very good too: she knew, after some six months of weekly Friday evening calls to Jimmy, just how he liked it. Jimmy wasn’t interested in toys, or blowjobs, or titfucks, or anal, or any other kinks. He liked cunt. He loved cunt. And he adored it when Bea talked cunt: “Jimmyyy…” she breathed, “my pussy’s feelin’ so hot tonight. Will ya put yer dick in there, Jimmyyy?”

“It’s all for you, Bea,” muttered Jimmy, in a half-hearted attempt to play along with the fantasy. Actually, he wasn’t much interested in the role-play aspect of things: it was, after all, pure fakery – but he liked hearing Bea talk dirty, and so he said the minimum required to let her know that she was on the right track, and then revelled in the glorious obscenity of her wall-to-wall aural filth.

“Oh yeah, that feels so fucking good!” she lied. “Your cock’s so fuckin’ hard, Jimmy – I can feel it deep in my cunt, fillin’ me up. Go on, Jimmy, slide that huge fuckin’ cock in and out of my wet cunt; can ya feel my pussy all hot and juicy for ya?” Jimmy listened, his eyes roving across the collage spread out on the bed before him, imagining what Bea’s cunt might be like. Deliberately, he had never asked her, preferring to make it a new cunt each week: last week’s choice had been “Cecilia” – black, shaven, lips teased apart just enough to reveal her juicy pink haven inside; this week, it would be “Jenny”.

Jimmy loved Bea’s voice – “chavvy South London”, he called it, oozing squalor; in his more lucid moments he imagined her as a single mum on the dole in some squalid high-rise council flat in Tooting – a ne’er-do-well scraping together a living using the only pathetic skill she had. But now she was his tart, his whore, his plaything, his fantasy: she could be anything and everything he imagined. He liked playing this game, as he continued to stroke his dick to ecstasy whilst revelling in Bea’s increasingly filthy ongoing monologue. Bea, for her part, was the consummate professional, sensing from Jimmy’s pants and grunts just how far he was on his journey to release. And when Jimmy muttered, “Say my favourite things, Bea,” she knew just what he meant.

“You know, Jimmy, I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore… That’s what I am, Jimmy – just a cuntfuckin’ whore.” Jimmy loved those words, and Bea’s grimy accent was the icing on the cake: his cock jerked and bucked in response, stiffening even further. “I’m a whore, Jimmyyy. And you like dir’y fuckin’ whores, don’tcha? You wanna fuck my filfy cunt wiv ‘at big cock?” Jimmy was in ecstasy.

Soon Bea had progressed to “My cunt’s so fuckin’ wet, Jimmy: that’s what you do to me, babe. You’re gonna make me fuckin’ come, Jimmy, ‘coz I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore, and I’m gonna fuckin’ come all over your big cock!” Jimmy took the cue, fixing his eyes on “Jenny’s” pussy – still, of course, reliably wide open and glistening for him – drinking in its beauty, and gradually ramping up the rhythm of his stroking so as to time his own orgasm to match Bea’s ersatz one. And when Bea got to “I’m gonna fuckin’ come, Jimmy, here it is baby, come all over ya dir’y filfy cuntfuckin’ whore – oh yeah oh FUUUUUCK!!!” Jimmy did exactly that. He felt the tell-tale boiling sensation in his balls, felt his cum surge and rise through his shaft and explode from his bucking, twitching cockhead.

“Jenny” was the chosen recipient of Jimmy’s cum this evening, six or seven thick ropes of semen splattering over her picture. Jimmy aimed at her cunt, and watched as the likeness of her vulva disappeared under a gloopy coating of semen. Bea was continuing to moan and squeal down the telephone line: “Oh yeah, Jimmy, are ya comin’ for me? Does ‘at feel good, babe?” as the last few dribbles of sperm landed on “Jenny’s” tits and face.

“Was ‘at nice, Jimmyyy?” breathed Bea in her customary breathy tones. “D’ya like comin’ in my dir’y hot cunt, Jimmyyy?”

Jimmy panted incoherently in reply, his imagination desperately clinging on as long as he could to the illusion of sexual fulfillment. But it was always too short-lived. Even before his cock was flaccid, the illusion was fading and Bea was in business mode: “Same time next week still good for ya, babe? Take it off yer card, yeah?”

Jimmy muttered a “Yeah, thanks, Bea,” before hanging up and surveying the mess. It never looked as good afterwards as he hoped it would before. Sperm-soiled magazine “Jenny” looked, frankly, ridiculous and tawdry now – a far cry from the seductive perfection she had exuded when pristine on the page. And wrapping up and disposing of semen-soaked magazine pages was anything but sexy. But Jimmy did so with his customary goal-oriented efficiency, trying to – and largely succeeding in – staunching his creeping feeling of shame, until the job was done, his penis was wiped clean, and he had put on his clothes again.

Then his collar.

And then his cassock.

And then Father James Wright knelt on the floor of his bedroom and wept bitterly.

~

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host – by the Divine Power of God – cast into Hell Satan and all the evil spirits, who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of… oh fuck…”

Father Jim’s voice tailed off. He had performed his morning ablutions, had his breakfast, and said his Office, and was preparing himself by examination of conscience for his weekly two-birds-with-one-stone excursion to the Cathedral – first to confession, followed by his weekly exorcism training seminar. He usually dressed in civvies for these visits, not wanting to draw attention to himself on public transport – but he never missed his hebdomadal chance to unburden his soul, and timing it for Saturday mornings made sense. Apart from anything else, this way, he felt less guilty saying the Eucharist over the weekend than if he were to have his Friday evening sins hanging on his conscience.

But this morning Father Jim’s voice gave up mid-supplication, as the thought impinged upon his intercessions: Am I a hypocrite? Actually, this was a thought which frequently went through his mind. The answer, of course, was yes: regularly, deliberately, and with full foreknowledge, every Friday night – and he knew it. For hypocrite though he was, he was neither stupid nor deluded. He had learnt to corral his fleshly weakness into one weekly episode, and it would soon be, gratias Deo, effaced from his soul by the Sacrament of Reconciliation – after which he could continue to pursue his presbyterial vocation with confidence. Until next Friday.

Today, though, he felt somewhat less confident than normal, less spiritually bullish, more vulnerable than usual. Perhaps it was the weather – dull and grey like many an English spring morning – but it was almost as if he felt that the hosts of Satan were genuinely massing on the horizon, and that he might truly need the intercession of an archangel to forestall the ruin of his soul. In short, Father Jim’s carefully calibrated balancing act between spiritual propriety and sexual concupiscence was feeling unaccountably precarious this morning.

He was just letting himself out of the presbytery when a young woman came dashing round the corner, her heels clicking unevenly on the pavement. “Father Jim! Father Jim! Oh, I’m so glad I caught you. Please would you hear my confession?” Behind the urgency of her request Jim descried a pleasingly upper middle-class voice (“so” came out a bit like “say”) – but ever so slightly Estuary (“t” in “caught” barely noticeable), as was common with the younger generation. 

Father Jim thought, but did not say: Oh fuck. He tried not to think swear words between Saturday morning confession and the end of mass on Sunday evening. But he had not been to confession yet, and therefore made the split-second judgment that he may as well, for now, think obscenities. After all, he liked them; he liked the sound of them: “fuck” – beautiful, he thought. And this young lady was, he thought to himself, “fucking hot”. She was slender and small, almost a waif – and yet her pencil skirt was just a touch too tight, and her blouse ever so slightly translucent, so that the shape of her nipples, puffy and rounded but not huge, made two soft tents in the front of her top.

Oops – he thought, as he felt his penis begin to stir inside his rather ill-fitting trousers. No, it would not do to be groping his cock out of the way in front of a parishioner, so he banished “fucking hot” from his brain with a quick piece of well-practiced spiritual legerdemain, and switched into concerned parish priest mode. He vaguely recognised the girl – from the back row of the 10:30, perhaps? – but wasn’t sure if they had ever exchanged words. He felt within his rights to say, “I’m actually on my way out now, er…” as he looked at her quizzically with that I’ve-forgotten-your-name look customarily used by parish priests.

“Bernadette – call me Bernie,” said the woman, pronouncing the “r” softly but clearly.

OK, thought Father Jim. Typical second-generation immigrant. Tries to keep up the religious traditions of the home country, but talks like a Sloane except when asserting her identity. Clearly done well for herself, been to uni. But – Jim groaned inwardly – she wasn’t taking the hint.

“Oh please, Father, I really need you to hear my confession, I… I…” Father Jim looked into her eyes for the first time – and there was that look of moral desperation he was used to seeing in some people. Some could live in their sins for long periods of time before emotional need drove them back to the Church; others, like this girl, presumably, were made of less stern stuff. Her eyes glistened with barely held-back tears, as she continued: “I think I may be under a curse, or a hex, and I… I know you are training to be an exorcist, aren’t you?” Her lower lip trembled, as her damp eyes pleaded with him.

In the silence of his heart, Father Jim thought to himself: Oh fuck. But he took no pleasure in this particular iteration of his favourite obscenity. He had met this kind of woman before: excessively impressionable, with an inclination to see spiritual warfare lurking under every pebble, when her only problem might a temporary imbalance of hormones. Exorcism? Bullshit. But Jim was, despite his cynicism, a kind man, and so he said, “All right, Bernie. Of course. Let’s go in,” as he ushered her through his front door. “Face-to-face, or in the box?”

“Oh, I prefer the old-fashioned way, if that’s all right, Father?” she replied sheepishly.

He gestured her down the corridor towards the church, and then up the long nave – pleasantly illumined by the shifting colours which filtered dully through the great east window. As she walked ahead of him, he watched her bottom jiggle gently from side to side, red heels clicking on the stone floor, her medium-length ponytail of light brown hair swishing behind her. Fuck, he thought – and this time revelled in the thought. Fuck yeah… he muttered silently, his mind’s eye briefly, secretly, undressing her from behind.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” said the girl, once they had both settled into their respective halves of the confessional.

“How long has –”

“Oh, over a year, Father.” interrupted Bernie. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Fuck, thought Father Jim. But, because he was basically a kind-hearted man, he instead said: “Well, take your time. It is good that God has called you back to the Sacrament now.”

“Thank you, Father.” He heard Bernie take a deep breath. “I… I’m married…” she ventured cautiously. “But I’ve not been strictly… faithful…” There was a long pause.

Ho ho, I knew it, thought Jim. Another pretty young slut, got hitched too soon, screwing around behind her husband’s back. Two a penny. Had one just last week, didn’t I? But instead he said, “And how long have you been having this affair?”

“Oh, it’s not an affair, Father,” said the girl. “It’s kind of a weird binge, a bit... perverted, if you know what I mean. On the rebound, I guess, because I walked in on my husband, you know – with someone else…”

Oh shit, thought Father Jim. This’ll take all morning. Web of adultery – seen it all before. One fucks around, the other goes off the rails, and soon they’re all crotch-deep in moral turpitude. Why do they even bother to get married if they’ve got no continence? Should try and be celibate – then they’ll learn how lucky they are… All that passed through his mind in an instant, but of course he voiced none of it.

“You see,” continued Bernie, “we were married a year ago – here, before you came: Father Peter married us – and, well, I thought it was going so well. We… we were really good in bed, you know… I mean, we really liked the sex and everything.”

Too much information! thought Jim to himself. But he did not say that either.

“You know, I was a virgin when we got married. I’d saved myself up for this. And the first time, it was wonderful. You know, for some girls it hurts? But for me it was bliss. He just slid in, and I loved it. And we loved it – just like that, in and out, you know?”

Father Jim felt his cock begin to stir. It was the inevitable involuntary reaction to a sexual confession which was becoming just a touch too detailed. Fuck, girl, why are you telling me all this? he thought. But Bernie continued to jabber, exuding, though unseen, an air of wide-eyed innocence from behind her latticed screen.

“But then Giles started wanting me to do things I didn’t want to – you know, oral, and anal, and stuff – and I really wasn’t comfortable with it, so we had a few arguments about that. “I mean, when he wanted me to give him a blowjob, you know, he’d just pull down his trousers and waggle the thing in front of my face...”

Too much fucking information! Jim screeched in the silence of his own heart. But he couldn’t stop himself imagining the husband’s cock, stiff and huge, waggling back and forth in front of Bernie’s pretty face, her narrow mouth opening wider, wider, her tongue extending to lick pre-cum off the frenulum before her lips softly enclosed the... Fuck, Jim, pull yourself together, man! he thought, as he felt his cock begin to make an uncomfortable tent in his trousers. He stammered out loud, “Er... sister, you don’t need to tell me all that, you know, just stick to...”

“Oh, but it’s important, Father,” came Bernie’s voice. “Because that’s what led to it. I told him I didn’t like sucking him off, but he kept trying to persuade me, and I kept saying no...” Father Jim imagined he detected the faintest hint of a smirk in her tone – but of course it was impossible to tell...

“And then,” continued Bernie, “there was the anal. Sometimes when we were making love he’d wet his finger with... well, you know... and then he’d reach round and try to stick it in there. I really didn’t like it – and of course he never forced me; I mean, he’s a kind man, he’d never do anything nasty – but it was clear he was disappointed...”

Oh Jesus motherfucking Christ, thought Father Jim. His cock was stiff now, and he could feel his own pre-cum beginning to leak slowly from his glans. He reached down to adjust his cock inside his trousers, and inevitably his hand lingered just a bit too long, grasping his own erect shaft through the fabric and squeezing it gently. That familiar thrill of pleasure surged through him – but he made himself let go, telling himself: Later, Jim, later. Just get this girl through her confession for now...

“But the strangest thing of all, Father,” Bernie continued unabated, “was when he’d want me to talk dirty to him, you know?”

Are you kidding? thought Jim incredulously. Do you think that just because I’m a priest I don't have male blood boiling in my veins? What are you on about, girl?!

Bernie seemed oblivious to her confessor’s discomfort. Either that, or she was deliberately winding him up – he couldn’t tell for sure. “See, Father,” she continued, “he’d ask me to say dirty words, like… ‘tits’… and ‘pussy’... and…” – her voice lingered a while on the first consonant – “‘ffffuck’.”

In an instant, Father Jim’s resistance crumbled. That word was his favourite, a glorious fillip to all that was unholy and self-indulgent in the deepest recesses of his mind, and it banished all his residual will-power to the four winds. He quietly but swiftly unzipped his fly, removed his stiff sweaty cock from its prison, pulled back the damp pre-cum-lubricated foreskin, and began to slowly wank his shaft up and down, his lips trembling, his breath coming in ragged bursts. This was wrong. This was so wrong – he knew it, of course. But he was going to do it anyway. This girl could not possibly be for real. This was no sacrament, this was an ambush. The Evil One was tempting him, and he was succumbing. And he fucking loved it...

“See, Father Jim, it must be something about men, they all like those dirty words so much. My husband did: he wanted me to say things like” – Bernie lowered her voice conspiratorially – “‘Ram your fucking cock in my pussy, baby!’ and ‘Fuck my hot cunt with that big dick!’ Things like that... Do you like hearing things like that, Father?” Bernie’s voice was hot and breathy now. Her prey was in her grasp, and she was playing with him: Jim knew it – but, though he had no idea why this woman had chosen to ambush him in this manner, he knew it was too late. He groaned, as he felt his cock stiffen further in his sweaty palm, felt his heart pound faster with excitement.

“I’m sure we could have worked things out, Father. You know, I got quite used to the dirty talk – that was quite fun actually. But the oral, and the anal – no way. He’d show me videos on the internet, you know – porn? Girls getting fucked in the arse, and taking cocks down their throats – and it just looked so horrible and painful and disgusting. And then he’d show me videos of group sex, and asked if I’d ever like to do stuff like that – and I said no! And then, to show him I really loved him, I’d let him fuck me. I mean, I really loved it when he fucked me: when his cock was all huge and stiff, and then he’d lie me on my back and fuck me all deep and squelchy. Sometimes he’d lie flat on me and grind the base of his cock against my clit to make me come. Sometimes he’d shift down, so his cockhead found my G-spot. Sometimes he’d flip me over and do me doggy. Sometimes I’d go on top and drive him wild, teasing him with my wet pussy lips before plunging down onto this cock. And I loved all that, Father, I did, truly. Cock in cunt – that’s the way it’s meant to be, isn’t it? I mean, that’s the way God made us, isn’t it?”

Father Jim groaned at the absurdity of his situation. Here was a young girl giving him lessons in Saint John Paul’s Theology of the Body, while he stroked his cock in the confessional – what the fuck was going on?! But he couldn’t stop now. His cock was raging, his balls were aching, and his thoughts were in mindfuck mode. Here was a girl after his own heart, one who loved being fucked in the cunt, and who loved to talk filthy. “Oh yeah, oh fuck, oh God…” he muttered incoherently in his ecstasy.

“You OK in there, Father Jim?” giggled the girl. “I’m sorry for being so explicit, but – I kind of have to, you’ll see why soon, I’ll explain…”

You don’t have to explain, thought Father Jim – as far as he was capable of thinking anything at all, for he was past thinking now. His mind was now fixed firmly on cunt, on fucking cunt, just like this girl was saying: cock slip-sliding in and out, grinding against engorged clit-flesh. It didn’t matter whose cunt: his years of fake fantasy sex, week after week of dirty pictures – “Jenny” or “Codi” or “Elsa” or whoever the fuck they were; or of listening to “Bea” recycling her mind-banked fuck-fantasies for his delectation – all this had inured him to the sheer fakery of being a sex-obsessed celibate. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now, except the filth-filled moment.

“But then,” Bernie continued, “one day, about six months ago, I came home early from work, and… and I heard voices from the bedroom upstairs. I was about to walk in, but then, through the door, I heard things like, ‘Oh yeah, suck that cock, baby. I’m gonna fuck your pretty slut-face with my big dick…’ – you know, things like that?” Jim heard a nervous giggle from behind the lattice. “And there was the sound of squealing and gagging, like some girl was getting their throat fucked… So then I thought maybe he was watching porn…? But this was too real – and when I realised what must be going on… Oh God, Father, it hurt so much…”

For the first time, Father Jim paused stroking his cock. The girl was sobbing softly now. Father Jim felt sorry – and guilty. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, as his cock began to soften, and he began to recognise the reality of his own situation. And so his “I’m so sorry” became, retrospectively, not just an expression of sympathy for Bernie, but also an admission of his own culpability. What was he doing sitting in the half-light, pre-cum smeared over his hand, jerking off while listening to a vulnerable, disturbed young woman telling him about the moment she found her husband cheating on her? Shame on you, Jim, he told himself silently.

But Bernie had not finished. “And so I opened the door,” she whispered sharply, “and there they were: Giles standing there shirtless, his big cock stuck out through his fly, ropes of spit dangling from the shaft and dribbling all over the face and tits of my best friend Vicky – you know Vicky: Victoria Berry, she runs the First Holy Communion programme here…? Anyway, she was saying, ‘Oh yeah, babe, I fucking love it when you choke me with that big cock, go on, ram that cock down my throat again…’

“And then she saw me, before he did. At first she paused in shock. Then she screamed. And then she retreated to the corner of the bedroom, desperately trying to cover up her big tits and wipe the spit off her face. ‘Oh God, Bernie, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!’ But she wasn’t sorry – and I knew it.

“Giles didn’t even pretend. He just stood there, spit dribbling from his cock, smirking. He even said, ‘Wanna join us, Dette? Come here and I’ll fuck your cunt just the way you like it, while Vicky licks my balls…’

“And I… well, I had no idea what to say. So I just screamed at him, ‘“Just the way I like it” – sorry?! You’re nothing but a fucking pervert, with all your porn, and your anal and your throatfucking. And now this?! How dare you treat me this way – your wife?! What’s wrong with you?!!’ And then… I didn’t know what to do: I wanted so much to hurt him, to make him suffer, standing there all smug with his dick dribbling all over our carpet. But more than that, I wanted to protect myself, to purify myself of the horror and degradation of it all. I wanted to show him I was better than all his filth, to save myself from where he was wanting to take me. So I shouted, ‘You’ll never fuck me again, you bastard! No man will ever fuck me again. I swear, as God is my witness’ – and I know I shouldn’t have sworn, Father: I shouldn’t have said anything like that, but, God forgive me, I did – ‘I swear that no man will ever fuck this cunt again – or may God strike me dead!’ And then I ran out. And I never went back.

“So now what do I do, Father? I mean, I’ve called a curse down on myself. May God strike me dead if I break my vow – that’s what I said! And, you know, I’ve stuck with it, Father. I’ve kept my vow. Ever since then, I’ve not been fucked. And that was six months ago – probably just before you came to this parish, wasn’t it?”

Bernie paused. And Father Jim sat in the half-light, bewildered, confused, and scared. This woman must be unstable, he thought. Stark raving mad, actually. Why else would she come to the confessional to tell him, in the filthiest language imaginable – what exactly? – that she had caught her husband in flagrante delicto and had now, on the rebound, forsworn sex?

“Bernie… Bernie…” Jim fumbled for the right words. “What can I do for you? You have committed no mortal sin. You don’t need exorcism – or even confession. But do you want help? Counselling? We have a wonderful ministry here for separated and divorced Catholics: let me put you in touch with the leader, she could help you…”

“No, Father,” interrupted Bernie firmly, “you don’t understand. I swore that I if am ever fucked again, God must strike me dead. I am under a curse, Father – and I need to be released. And you are an exorcist, are you not?”

Father Jim sat in the semi-darkness, his flaccid cock dangling out of his fly, a little droplet of pre-cum still glimmering on his glans, and he took a deep breath. “I have been receiving training, yes – but you don’t need exorcism. Your words were spoken in haste, in an understandable excess of emotion: God will not hold that against you. You need to rebuild your life, not live in fear of an imagined curse that…”

“Father,” Bernie interrupted again, even more firmly that before, “Pray over me now: release me from my curse. The Evil One has my cunt in his grasp. After all…” – Bea paused, then spoke very slowly and clearly – “I am a dirty, filthy, cuntfucking whore.”

Father Jim’s heart skipped a beat. “What did you say?” he gasped.

“I said, ‘I am dirty, filthy, cuntfucking whore.’ Or, would you prefer it like this: ‘I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore – Jimmyyy…’” Bernie’s voice had changed: gone was her slightly Chelsea accent with the barely-noticeable residual Irish lilt; replaced suddenly, brutally, by the chavvy South London drawl he recognised so well.

Father Jim leapt up – terrified. Now he knew he was in trouble. Who was this girl? Who was she pretending to be?  Who was pretending to be whom? And what was she after? And why was she playing with him like this? What it a trap? All these thoughts raced through his mind, but he did not have time to voice any of them before Bernie’s voice (or was it Bea’s?), cold as steel despite the muffling effect of the latticed confessional screen, said: “Don’t put yer cock away, Jimmyyy. Leave it danglin’ like the good li’l wanker you are, and join me in front of the Sacrament.” He heard the door on Bernie’s side of the confessional open, and her heels click-clicking across the stone floor in the direction of the altar.

Obediently, though trembling in terror, Father Jim opened his door – and gasped. For Bernie’s tiny waif-like figure was naked now, apart from her red high heels, her tight bottom wiggling and swaying as she walked ahead of him, the wispy outline of her pubic hair just visible between her soft buttocks. “D’ya like it, Jimmyyy?” smirked Bernie, as she looked back over her shoulder to watch his cock, still dangling awkwardly out of his fly, begin to stiffen again. “This is whatcha wanted ta see when you followed me in here, wasn’t it? Because ya like cunt, don’t ya, Jimmyyy? Nuffink better than the sight of a hot cunt peeping out from between Bea’s arse-cheeks, eh? Ya wanna fuck my cunt, Jimmy? ‘Coz you can…” – she reached the sanctuary steps, and turned to point one accusing finger at Jim as she bellowed – “AFTER YOU FUCKIN’ EXORCISE IT!!!”

Bea’s demented scream echoed off the stone walls of the church, as she backed up the three steps to the sanctuary and lifted her bottom onto the altar, carelessly scattering crucifix, sacramentary and candle-stands onto the floor. She spread her legs wide and leant back on her elbows, pert puffy tits and lightly thatched pussy-gape shamelessly displayed. Father Jim stood, horrified and transfixed in equal measure. The detritus of Bea’s blasphemy lay scattered on the floor – but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Oh yeah, cunt! he thought, despite himself. Yeah, hot fucking cunt!

Bea knew what he was thinking. “D’ya like it, Jimmyyy?” she breathed. “If ya wanna fuck it, get yer prayer book, and fuckin’ remove my curse!” Bea began to slide one finger into her pussy, wetting it with her fuck-slime and gently rubbing her clit. Father Jim hesitated, rooted to the spot in terror, until Bea screamed again, “GET YER FUCKIN’ PRAYER BOOK AND PRAY MY CURSE AWAY, JIMMYYYYYYYY!!!”

Father Jim scrabbled through a pile of books on the front pew, retrieved a copy of Prayers Against the Powers of Darkness, and raised his right palm towards Bea, who was now panting in ecstasy as she rubbed her clit with one hand, two fingers of the other plunging in and out of her sodden pussy.

“L… Lo… Lord Jesus Christ,” stammered the priest, “I place my sister at the foot of Your cross and ask You to cover her with Your Precious Blood which pours forth from Your Most Sacred Heart and Your Most Holy Wounds. Cleanse her, my Jesus, in the living water that flows from Your Heart. I ask You to surround her, Lord Jesus, with Your Holy Light.”

“OH YEAH, AMEN!” screamed Bea, as a spasm went through her body – whether of spiritual battle or sexual pleasure Father did not know, but no longer cared. His words were those of prayer – but his mind was fixed on cunt.

Cunt… oh yeah, cunt! he moaned in the silence of his heart, even as he continued to stammer: “In… in… in the… Holy Name of Jesus, I break and dissolve any and all curses, spiritual influences, evil wishes, evil desires, and every dysfunction and disease from any source including your mistakes and sins. In Jesus’ Name, I sever the transmission of any and all vows, pacts, spiritual bonds and satanic works.”

“FUCK YEAAAAHHH!” screamed the girl, as another spasm passed through her body. Three slimy fingers were now pounding in and out of her cunt, as the other hand rubbed frantically at her clit.

Father Jim’s cock was stiff and throbbing again – but with one hand holding his prayer book and the other extended towards Bernie, he could not touch it, but continued to read with a trembling voice: “In the Name of Jesus, I lift this curse. I thank You, Jesus, for setting my sister free. Fill her with charity, compassion, faith, gentleness, hope, humility, modesty, tranquillity, truth, understanding, and wisdom. Help her to walk in Your Light and Truth, illuminated by the Holy Spirit so that she may praise, honour, and glorify Our Father in time and in eternity.”

“FUCK YEAH JESUS!” screamed Bernie, as her whole body shook from head to toe, four fingers now forming a blur as they pounded in and out of her cunt. “FREE ME JESUS! FREE MY FUCKIN’ CUNT! OH FUUUUUUCK!!!”

Father Jim’s cock was sticking horizontally out of his fly, throbbing with wild desperation. Pre-cum dribbled down his shaft – but still he did not touch, as he continued to stretch out his right hand in prayer: “For You, Lord Jesus, are the Way, and the Truth, and the Life, and You have come that we might have life, and have it to the full.”

Bernie’s whole fist was now pounding in and out of her cunt, her fuck-lips stretched wide in agony and ecstasy as she screamed, “DEPART FROM ME SATAN! I’M COMING! OH FUCK YEAAAAAH!!!” Juice squirted from her cunt, across the floor and down the stone altar steps, splattering Father Jim’s shoes and trouser-legs.

“Surely God is my salvation,” intoned the priest, lips and hands trembling but his cock throbbing nevertheless. “I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord himself, is my strength and my defense; he is my salvation.”

“Amen… Amen…” whispered Bernie as she slowly withdrew her slimy hand from her cunt, her fuck-lips stretching wide, leaving her pussy gaping, her pink flesh glistening in front of Father Jim’s face. The priest lowered his right hand, then stood, staring, bewildered, drained – but his cock still stiff and dribbling.

“I’m free, Father,” said Bernie, a wild deranged smile spreading across her face. “Jesus has set me free from my curse!”

Jim stared in horror. Bernie’s face was luminescent, demented. But her cunt shone with a different kind of gleam – and Jim could not tear his eyes away from it.

“I can fuck again, Father,” said Bernie. “My cunt is free again: look!” She spread her pussy-lips wide, so that Jim could stare into her pink gloopy bubbling depths. And then she said the inevitable: “Now ffffuck me, Jimmyyyy…”

Father Jim gripped his cock with his right hand, even as his left held his prayer book tight. He was scared – terrified of what he had just done, and of what this deranged troubled girl was now telling him to do. He knew this was all wrong. But the scent of frigged-out cunt, the sight of that glistening pink fuck-flesh, and the sound of her sultry voice breathing at him, were too much to withstand. “Fuck me, Jimmyyy,” she said again, “Fuck my hot cunt. ‘Coz I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore. And you like dir’y fuckin’ whores, don’tcha? You wanna fuck my filfy cunt wiv yer big cock?”

Father Jim nodded, mutely, his right hand gripping his shaft. His prayer book slipped subconsciously from his left hand, landing in a little puddle of pussy-squirt on the stone floor. “Come on Jimmyyy,” breathed Bea. “Don’t be scared. My cunt’s all safe now. No curse no more. And I’ve been waitin’ for this for so long, Jimmy. Every fuckin’ Friday night I’ve had my fingers up my cunt, rubbing myself off for ya, listening to ya spurt your hot cum all over yer wank-mags. Now it’s time for you to fuck my cunt for real, Jimmy!”

“Wh… who are you?” stammered Father Jim. “Why me?”

“Later, Jimmy, later,” said Bea, spreading her cunt-lips again. “Now fuck me.”

Trembling, Father Jim walked up the three stone steps to the edge of the altar, where Bea sat, her legs spread wide, still adorned by her red high heels, her cunt pungent, oozing, inviting. He nudged his bulging cockhead against her cunt-lips, and pushed.

“OH GOD!” He could not resist calling out – for here, now, for the first time ever, was something he had fantasised about all his life. He felt Bea’s soft moist velvety depths yield and engulf him, felt her juices gently coat the length of his shaft, felt her inner cunt muscles squeezing, caressing. And then he started to fuck – slowly at first, relishing the heavenly-hellish feeling of her slip-slimy walls stroking the full length of his shaft as it slid all the way out, then in, and then again, and again, each new thrust taking his cock to a new level of pleasure, and his mind closer and closer to ecstasy.

“Is ‘at good for ya, Jimmy?” Bea eyes gleamed. “You lifted my curse, Jimmy. I knew you could, Mister Father James Wright! From the first time I saw yer card details I knew you were the one to save me. Giles and Vicky can go fuck themselves: ‘coz I got a priest to set my cunt free!”

Jimmy knew deep down that this girl was mad, that he had been trapped, and that this meant the end of everything he had ever truly valued: his vocation, his career, his friendships, his reputation. But… cunt. Cunt. This was not like jerking off over his magazines on Friday night. This cunt was real – and truly, he saw that it was good. Bea was now talking to him the way he could never resist: “Feel how fuckin’ wet my cunt is, Jimmy? That’s what you do to me, babe. You’re gonna make me come, Jimmy, ‘coz I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore, and I’m gonna fuckin’ come all over your big cock!”

“OH GOD!” cried Father Jim again, his voice echoing to the rafters.  He felt the cum rise in his shaft – but this was different from any time before, for now his sperm was being caressed out of his cock by hot wet pussy. And when Bea got to her customary “Here it is baby, come deep inside yer dir’y filfy cuntfuckin’ whore – oh FUUUUUCK!!!” Father Jim did just that, ramming his cock deep, so he felt his dickhead hard against her cervix. Spurt after spurt of hot jizz exploded from his cock, deep inside this beautiful, sexy, demented, diabolical creature. Here in this moment were met good and evil, beauty and filth, Heaven and Hell. His vocation was forgotten, his reputation abandoned: all that mattered was cunt.

“Oh yeah, Jimmy, does ‘at feel good, babe, comin’ in my fuckin’ pussy?” moaned Bea. “Was ‘at good, Jimmyyy? D’ya like comin’ in my dir’y hot cunt, Jimmyyy? Better than all those fuck-mags, eh?”

Father Jim groaned and nodded incoherently, as he slowly pulled out, leaving a thin gloopy strand of semen dribbling across the edge of the altar. Bea lay back, grinning naughtily, as she dipped two fingers into her fuck-hole, withdrew a blob of warm cum, and proceeded to savour the taste.

Father Jim felt like kneeling in thanksgiving and adoration – but of course he knew that would be wrong, so instead he stood awkwardly, panting, feeling the ecstasy slowly ebb away. This time, he gradually realised, was different from before: instead of the habitual tawdriness of watching his semen congeal on magazine pages, instead of the creeping feeling of guilt he was so used to, he felt free. Liberated from decades of hypocrisy, elated by his shamelessness, he turned away from Bea, penis still dribbling, to face the nave, raised his arms heavenwards, and cried out towards the great east window: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel; for he hath visited and redeemed his people, and hath raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David! Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!”

And then Father James Wright laughed – a great and glorious roar of laughter such as he could not remember ever having laughed for decades. And he danced, like David before the Ark, spinning round and round, skipping down the aisle, vaulting over the baptismal font, leaping skywards in a semi-naked paean to his new-found liberation. “If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed! Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery!”

“Bea!” Jim shouted, turning back to face the altar. “You mad, sexy, dirty, beautiful girl! We have both set each other free! Never mind your silly little curse, never mind your adulterous husband and his First-Communion bimbo, never mind my half-baked hypocrisy of a priesthood – you and I, Bea, are free! We have prayed and fucked, and fucked and prayed each other’s curses and burdens away – alleluia! Bea, up you get – come and join me in praising God!”

But there was no answer from the waif, who lay still and silent on the altar, cum slowly oozing from her cunt.

“Bea? … Bernie?”

There was silence.

Father Jim ran back up the aisle and up the sanctuary steps, approached the altar, and reached out his hand… He touched hers – and withdrew immediately in shock.

“Oh God, no… no…”

Outside, the clouds must have been clearing, for a ray of sunlight pierced the great east window, suddenly casting a bright red glow on Bea’s fucked-out, lifeless cunt.

“GOD, NOOOOOOO!!!” screamed Father James Wright, as he clutched his chest, then tore at his hair.

And then he turned, and ran.

Victoria Berry had wonderful curves. She was blessed with large round natural breasts, each graced with a wide, perfectly pink areola and a puffy dome-shaped nipple. Her bottom was also gloriously curved: her full buttocks swayed gently as she walked, inviting the attraction of all who spied her. Her face too was round – not pudgy, but naturally broad, with cheeks whose roundness echoed that of her breasts and buttocks. Her eyes were wide and moon-shaped, giving her a permanently curious and enthusiastic air, as if she were fascinated and delighted by anything and everything she came into contact with.

At the moment, said wide eyes were gazing up into Giles Byard-Jones’ face – and he was grinning back – principally because he had already fucked her tits, and her cunt, and her arse, and was now blissfully hoping to finish off in her throat. And what a throat! The first time he had fucked it, some eight months ago, he had been amazed to discover that it was even possible for his cock – and it was a big cock, he congratulated himself – to bottom out in a woman’s gullet. His ex had hated sucking his dick, and so he had gone looking elsewhere for that particular pleasure. And here she was: Vicky Berry, the ex’s best friend – ex-best friend, that is – church youth worker, pillar of the community, admired and adored by all, gazing into his face with wide delighted eyes, as he pounded his fat cock deep into her round, open mouth.

Vicky had a way of producing the most delightfully obscene noises when he fucked her face – a sort of cross between a duck quacking and a toilet backing up. To the world it announced filth, and to Giles degradation – submission, to be precise. Giles liked that: the ex had enjoyed sex, but had not pandered to his more demanding preferences. Vicky, on the other hand, seemed to want to earn his approbation. And so she quacked and gagged just the way he liked it best, allowing her saliva to dribble and drip down her chin onto her full round tits, and letting great ropes of spit swing and dangle off his big shaft, as she gazed wide-eyed, and apparently delighted, into his face.

“Oh yeah, baby, you’re such a dirty whore,” muttered Giles.

“That’s why you like me,” grinned Vicky, removing her lover’s stiff cock from her mouth to beat her face with it, letting all those gloopy spit-strings spatter all over her cheeks and forehead, “‘cause I'm a filthy throat-fucking slut – and you like that, don’t you, babe? You like nasty, evil, adulterous church-going whores, don’t you, Mister B-J? You know how to treat me, don’t you, you dirty bastard?!”

“Oh yeah, filthy Catholic bitches who preach goodness and purity one moment and suck my big cock the next – that’s what I like!” replied Giles, warming up to Vicky’s conversational filth.

“Go on then, Mister B-J, fucking ram it in again, all the way down, make your church-whore fucking puke on that big dick! Make me – mmmggg...”

Vicky’s instructions were cut short, as Giles did precisely as she asked. Actually, not entirely precisely: he never made her puke, for her technique was too good for that – but he loved it when she said that sort of thing: it made him feel powerful, and he liked being powerful. He lifted his hand and slapped Vicky sharply on her right cheek, feeling the impulse travel through to his cock. She glubbed, pulling back off him just enough to say, “Oh yeah, slap me baby, go on, hurt this fucking slut!” before plunging her throat back onto his shaft. Giles roared his approval with a stream of obscenities, speeding up his face-fucking whilst alternately slapping her face and tits, each strike eliciting a squeal of mock-pleasure from the buxom blonde. “Yeah, harder, go on, fucking punish me, I’m such a dirty fucking whore!” screeched Vicky.

Giles sensed the cum rising from his balls, felt his throbbing shaft growing stiffer. “Oh yeah, bitch, what’ll it be today?” he grunted. “Face or throat?”

“All over my fucking slut-face, big boy!” squealed Vicky, her mouth and round eyes wide with delight. “Go on, make me even prettier!”

But it was then that the doorbell rang. “FUCK!” swore Giles, as he hastily grabbed his clothes from a pile on the floor and pulled on jeans and T-shirt. “Fucking Amazon deliveries, at this time of the morning! Stay here, babe, I'll be back in a minute.”

As Giles’ footsteps pounded down the staircase, Vicky lay back and giggled. She tidied her hair, wiped some of the spit off her face, then lay back on the king-sized bed, massaging her large breasts as she waited.

And waited.

She heard the murmur of voices from downstairs. But she knew not to make an appearance – she was, after all, a well brought-up church-going twenty-something, and it would be best not to draw attention to the fact that she was fucking the husband of her ex-best friend. Instead, she reached over, extracted a cigarette from her pack on the night-stand and, striking a match, lit it.

Vicky relished the feeling of her lungs soaking up the nicotine, the calming tingling sensation slowly suffusing her body. She took a deep drag, lay back, and directed a perfectly-formed cone of smoke towards the ceiling, watching it bounce off, part and diffuse around the room.

And so she waited, smoking with one hand while the other cupped and squeezed her breasts, thumb and forefinger gently tweaking her full nipples, fingers lazily tracing the outline of her pussy-lips, wiping off little smears of cunt-juice which she proceeded to sniff, savour, and slurp off in-between drags of her cigarette. She smacked her lips in self-appreciation.

And waited. The voices continued to murmur downstairs, but she could not hear what they were saying. Clearly not just a delivery, though. Ah well, what the fuck, she thought, as she finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on her bedside table.

It was at least twenty minutes (and one more cigarette) later before she heard Giles’ footsteps trudging up the stairs. Definitely trudging, not leaping or bounding as she would have expected him to. What, wasn’t he looking forward to finishing off his throatfuck? She knew what to do to get him going again, though: she flipped herself onto her hands and knees, and stuck her bottom in the air so that Giles’ first sight when he re-entered the room would be her arsehole winking at him, and her loose wet cunt-lips dangling invitingly below. She grinned, as she began to rub her clit in anticipation.

“Come and get me baby!” she trilled, as Giles entered. But he just stood there, staring at her backside, apparently impassive and unmoved.

“Get ‘em off, Gilesey-baby! Which hole do you wanna fuck first?” she continued, spreading her pussy-lips wide with two fingers. But Giles did not “get them off”; he just stood there.

“She’s dead,” he said, in a hollow voice.

~

“What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know how she died?” shouted Detective Inspector Jane McCann into her mobile phone. She was standing at the altar in the Catholic Church of the Immaculate Conception, pondering, and cursing her lot in trying to make head or tail of this very strange case. “You're telling me no signs of strangulation? ... No bruising? ... No poison? ... But it was his cum, right? So you’re saying he fucked her, and then she just died – just like that?! How the fuck does that happen?”

“What?! ‘Avada ke–’ yeah, very funny, Harry, ha fucking ha… OK… OK, so now we have a dead body, and a missing lecherous priest – but no evidence of any foul play at all?” D. I. McCann was having a bad day. She knew who the victim was; she knew who the prime suspect was: after all, his semen – DNA tests had confirmed it – had been seeping out of the victim’s pussy when the body was discovered. But without any indication of cause of death, she couldn't declare this a murder investigation. This was not what she was expecting at all. “OK, OK, Harry. Look, ring me if anything else comes up. We’ve put out a search on the priest: he can’t have got far – but it’s not as if we can charge him, if there’s been no crime committed!”

The Detective Inspector hung up, muttering “fuck” under her breath again. She was a tall, strongly built woman in her thirties, her dark hair tied neatly back in a bun, wearing a grey business-style pant suit, the jacket of which sat tight around her large breasts. All around her bustled the apparatus and detritus of a would-be murder investigation: officers standing guard, detectives dusting surfaces for fingerprints, the “crime” scene – the high altar – taped off; other officers, she knew, were in the sacristy and presbytery searching for clues, and taking statements from various parish luminaries, including the young Spanish nun who had discovered the corpse.

Jane surveyed the scene. Under normal circumstances, she thought to herself, this would be quite an attractive church – certainly nicer than most of the brutalist bunkers which passed for Catholic churches in England these days. This one was old – well, a bit, anyway, nineteenth century at least – with a rather fine east window and, facing it, a large Byzantine-style cruciform icon of the Pantocrator hung over the altar, the altar upon which had been found the body. Jane smirked, shaking her head at the irony of a woundless body discovered beneath the icon of a man being tortured to death.

“Jane!” She turned to see her colleague, Detective Sergeant Nyman, enter the church through the corridor from the presbytery.

“Anything, Phil?” she asked.

“Well... yes and no,” he replied, scratching his head. “She attends mass here regularly, apparently. But the husband says they’ve been separated for six months. He calls her his ‘ex’ – though they appear not to be officially divorced. He says she walked out on him, and insists he knows nothing about her movements or whereabouts since then. But I find that hard to believe: she’s been living alone in a flat just round the corner from here, working – and now it starts to get seriously weird – as a phone sex girl. (I didn’t even know such things still existed!) And – get this, do you know who her number one regular customer was? The parish priest, Father Wright! And her last call to him was last night!”

“Oh Jesus…” muttered the D. I. “What is it with these people? OK, but we still don’t have any evidence of foul play, do we – or do we?”

There was the sudden sound of commotion coming from the direction of the presbytery corridor. “Please, just let me speak to her – please!” came the chiselled but distraught voice of a young woman. “Detective Inspector!” D. I. McCann turned to see a short but shapely blonde, escorted by a policewoman, standing at the entrance to the nave. “I have information about Bernadette’s death, Inspector!” called the blonde, her eyes wide but bloodshot, as she wiped tears off her face. “My name’s Vicky; I was her best friend. Please let me speak to you!”

“Phil, with me,” said Jane, as she walked towards the presbytery door.

~

Father James Wright was driving. Not very fast. In fact, quite slowly. And rather aimlessly. He had been driving all morning. He didn’t know where he was going. He wasn’t trying to escape, as such. He was just driving. Driving away. Away from everything, he hoped in vain.

Jim didn’t really know where he was either. Somewhere up a country lane in Derbyshire, he thought: he hadn’t really been paying attention. It didn’t matter, did it? They would find him, sooner or later. They must be looking for him. They must be following him.

The midday sun peeked out from behind the clouds, momentarily blinding him, before he pulled down the visor. He trembled and groaned, recalling the dreadful events of that morning. Over and over they played in his head: the girl, the confession, the curse, the altar, the prayer book, the... cunt. Oh God, the cunt. The beauty, the scent, the glistening pink folds, the soft moist caresses, the squeezing, the pulsating, the ecstasy. The cunt. And then, the horror, the curse. The cunt. Oh God, the horror. “OH GOD!” he screamed into the deafening silence of his heart.

And he kept driving.

~

“You see, Inspector,” said the girl, after they had taken seats in the parish office, which had been hastily converted into an interview room that morning, “I… I know how Bernie died.” She was wringing her hands nervously, brushing her shoulder-length blond hair out of her face, sniffing and wiping tears off her cheeks every few seconds. She seemed somewhat unkempt, as if she had just thrown some clothes on in a hurry: her bra-strap was visible where her baggy aquamarine sweater had slipped down off one shoulder. Jane noted signs of a fairly recent love-bite on her lower neck, and the residual smell of cigarette smoke on her clothes.

“Tell me more,” said Jane, gesturing to Phil, who was sitting against the wall behind Vicky, to take notes.

“Well, it’s really upsetting, Inspector,” said the girl, blowing her nose. “I’ve not told anyone about this before because, really, I... I shouldn’t have been there.”

“What do you mean? Mrs Byard-Jones only died this morning. Were you there?”

“No no, I mean – I knew it was going to happen, for ages. I knew it! And it was… my fault.” The girl gave an anguished look, and tears welled in her eyes again.

“Your fault?” asked Jane, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes. You see, she was cursed.” Vicky trembled.

From behind Vicky's back, Phil looked at Jane with that “oh God another Catholic nutter” look. But Jane kept a straight face: “Tell me what you mean.”

“Well, she said it: she said, literally, ‘I swear that no man will ever fuck this cunt again – or may God strike me dead!’” Unseen by Vicky, Phil burst into silent giggles, rolling his eyes in exasperation, but the girl continued: “I heard it, I was there, because she said it to Giles – to her husband – when she had just discovered that he was cheating on her…” The anguish in her voice rose, as she looked painfully at Jane, “… WITH ME!” Vicky burst into tears again, howling as she gasped over and over, “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault! I am such a hypocrite. If I hadn’t been having an affair with Giles, none of this would have happened! God help me!”

“Ah,” said Jane. Not because she believed in the power of curses – but because she was pleased to have another piece of the jigsaw fit into place. She leant forward, taking Vicky’s hand and patting it reassuringly, as she waited for the girl to calm down. “Tell me… did anyone else know about this, er, ‘curse’?”

“Only me and Giles,” said Vicky, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes again. “And I am so sorry. I knew I should have told someone – but who? If anyone could have lifted the curse, it was Father Jim: he’s training to be an exorcist, see. And none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for me. I mean, if I hadn’t been fucking her husband, she would never have pronounced the curse, and then she wouldn’t have died, would she? It’s all my fault!” Vicky burst into tears again. From behind her, Phil rolled his eyes again, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yvonne!” called D. I. McCann into the corridor.

A policewoman appeared at the door. “Yvonne, please could you take this young lady and get her a cup of tea? Miss Berry, thank you for speaking to me. WPC Fletcher will take care of you now, and take down your details. If it’s all right with you, may Detective Sergeant Nyman or I contact you again later for further information?”

Vicky nodded tearfully, as the policewoman put her arm around her and escorted her out. She had not been gone a second before Phil groaned, “Total fucking nutter!”

“Yes,” replied Jane, “but they all seem to be nutters here, and they’re all crotch-deep in adultery and fornication and lies – and guilt. Now, we need to speak to the nun, what’s her name? Could you go and get her for me?”

“Sister Mariana? Sure,” said Phil as he got up and moved towards the door. “She was pretty much in shock earlier on. I’ll see how she is now: I think th–”

He paused, as another commotion from outside the office impinged on their conversation. “I insist you let me speak to him straight away. This is most urgent!” came the stentorian sound of a male voice from the corridor, as WPC Fletcher's head poked around the corner of the door.

“Detective Inspector, Bishop Kieran Conway would like to speak to you,” said Yvonne, with a concealed one-way grimace on her face.

Phil paused, eyebrows raised. Jane sighed, nodding her head. “Show him in, Yvonne. It’s OK, Phil, you can go. I can handle him alone.”

The Bishop was a broad-shouldered silver-haired man with a paternalistic, though charming, smile – which faltered slightly as he entered the room and caught sight of Jane. “Oh... er... Detective Inspector McCann? Have I got the right room?”

“That’s me,” replied Jane.

“Oh!” chortled the Bishop, “I am so sorry, I was expecting a man, but of course... How jolly foolish of me! Just shows how out-of-touch we churchmen can be, doesn’t it? Please forgive me!”

“Don't worry, Your Excellency – churchmen are not the only male chauvinists in the world, I assure you!” replied Jane, a half-smile gracing her normally-sombre face. “Please sit down. What can I do for you?”

“Well, this whole business – shocking, isn't it? Terribly shocking, that a young lady should expire in one of our churches. And Father Wright going missing – I'm sure there must be some terrible misunderstanding, some mistake. I’ve known him for over twenty years now, such a fine fine priest, I –”

“You realise he had just had sexual intercourse with the victim?”

The Bishop stopped, a look of panic sweeping across his face like a fast-moving shadow –swiftly effaced by a re-engagement of the paternalistic smile. “Oh... oh... I had no idea... I mean, this won’t need to be made public, will it? I mean, he is a celibate of course, he –”

“He is not the only ‘celibate’ in this diocese to betray his vows, is he, though, Your Excellency?” interrupted Jane.

“Whatever do you mean?” replied the Bishop, a sudden mixture of mock-indignation and terror on his face.

“Or should I ask Mrs Hutchinson about that?” pressed the Detective Inspector. “I am a Detective Inspector, you know. The clue’s in the title.”

The bishop’s face reddened suddenly, an expression of sheer suppressed rage coming over him in an instant. “If that is the way you are going to be, Detective Inspector…” he snarled.

“Your Excellency,” interrupted Jane, pleased at how deftly she had been able to use the bishop’s Achilles’ heel to her advantage, “I will reveal what I choose to reveal, and conceal what I choose to conceal, in order to solve this case, and in accordance with the laws I have to uphold. But I will not be dictated to by yourself. I have only been in this church a couple of hours, and I have been met by concealment and subterfuge at every turn. One of my men even found the sacristan attempting to secretly dispose of Father Wright’s quite considerable pornography collection; he has now been arrested for impeding a police investigation. And that is what I will do, without hesitation, to anyone else who attempts to do likewise. Now I ask you, do you know the whereabouts of Father Wright?”

The bishop appeared slightly cowed. “No, I do not,” he replied.

“I trust you will inform me immediately if you hear anything from him?”

“Yes, of course, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” There was a knock at the door. “Now, if you will excuse me, Your Excellency, I need to interview Sister Mariana.”

The door opened, and an olive-skinned young nun with somewhat severe features was ushered in by D. S. Nyman. She started at the sight of the bishop, covering her mouth in alarm. Under his breath, the cleric muttered, “No digas nada,” before exiting swiftly. Jane McCann pretended to neither notice nor understand.

~

It was twilight. Father James Wright was still driving. And thinking. And he thought: no. He hadn’t killed her, had he? He hadn’t even hurt her, had he? He had just... Well, it wasn’t good: he would lose his priesthood, his vocation. He would retire in disgrace; but maybe they’d give him a little pension, maybe a small stipend to do some administrative work, away from the public eye. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?

But... the cunt... and the curse... The cunt. And the horror. Oh God, why? How? “OH GOD!!!” he screamed out loud.

His car screeched to a halt and stalled. Not much of a screech, for he had barely been going at fifteen miles an hour. He pounded his fists on the steering wheel, screwing his eyes shut in existential pain.

“Y’ a’ reyt, duck?” said a voice. Father Jim looked up. There was a young woman standing by his window, dimly lit by a guttering street-lamp, pouting her lips at him. Her blond hair was piled loosely on her head, her face plastered with far too much make-up – bright red lips, dark lined eyes, bright blue eyelids, ridiculously long false eyelashes curled and batting. Jezebel, thought Jim, self-righteously, sent to tempt me. He re-started the car and put it into first gear, ready to move off again.

“Want a nice time, luv?” said the girl. “I can mek thi feel better.” Despite the chilly evening, all she wore on her top half was a skimpy pink blouse, which she swiftly pulled up to flash one pert tit. Father Jim looked at her, but did not react. “Want a gam?”

“Sorry?” said the priest.

“Blowjob. Ya want a blowjob? I can do ‘t fer thi in t’ car, if tha want.” She made a blowjob gesture with her wrist, helpfully jamming her tongue into her cheek to make her offer clearer.

“No, no,” muttered the priest distractedly, as he started to pull away from the kerb.

“Or you wanna fuck?” called the girl after him. Jim braked again. This time he didn’t stall. The girl smiled: she’d got the right trigger this time. “You wanna fffffuck, luv?”

Jim paused, breathing heavily as he pondered – or tried to ponder, his mind swimming with pain and inconsequence. But thinking was hard. He looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the girl, searching through his mental turmoil for a fixed point, a rock he could hold onto. God… Jesus… Truth… Love… Cunt. No no no, not that! “Oh God!” he muttered.

“You wanna fuck?” he heard the voice again through the car window, felt it echo in the void of his mind. “Look, this cunt’s for you…” Jim turned, and saw that the girl had pulled her already too short skirt up, slid her panties to one side, and was displaying her bald pink slit to him, holding it open with two slender fingers. “Ya like me cunt, luv? Wanna fuck it?”

Jim stared, trembling. Silently he nodded, and slowly, automatically, got out of the car. “Follow me then, luv,” said the girl, as she beckoned him down an alleyway.

Father James Wright followed her wiggling bottom into the crepuscular gloom.

~

Giles was walking fast. In the distance the sun was descending towards the horizon. Behind him the street lamps were beginning to illuminate, but Giles was walking away from them – out into the Great Park, putting the silhouette of the Castle and the town behind him. Soon it would be dark. But he knew the way in the dark: he had done this before.

He knew where to find her. They used to meet there regularly, in the days before Bernadette left him. A little secluded corner of the Park, in a dip behind a copse, hidden by the large stump of a fallen oak, which few walkers or tourists had yet discovered – perfect for extra-marital liaisons.

He smelt her before he saw her - the scent of burning tobacco carried on the still evening air. Rounding a corner, he briefly spied her face illuminated by the glow of her nearly-finished cigarette clasped between her full lips; then, a little ball of smoke hung seductively in front of her face, before being snapped back into her open throat. She heard him crackling his way through fallen twigs, stubbed her cigarette butt out in the soil below her bench, and turned to face him. He could not see, but her eyes were red and moist.

She spoke first. “We’ve killed her, you know.”

“Bullshit,” was his reply. “The priest killed her.”

“He didn’t. He fucked her. But he didn't harm her. Sister Mariana told me.”

“So how did she die?”

“Well, they don't know. But we do, don't we?”

“Oh fuck, Vic, you’re not still going on about that, are you?”

“Dammit, Giles,” shouted Vicky as she stood up, her exasperation bursting through the calm briefly afforded her by her last hit of nicotine, “don’t you have any heart at all? This is your wife we’re talking about. Your fucking wife, and she’s dead!” Vicky scrabbled desperately in her handbag for her cigarettes and matches, clamped another cigarette between her lips and lit it, the match flame again lighting up her face – still beautiful despite her contorted features and the tears now streaming down her cheeks.

“She’s not my wife! She left me six months ago,” retorted Giles, as Vicky stood up to approach him. He could just make out her features through the semi-darkness, periodically illuminated by the glow of her cigarette as she took drag after desperate drag deep into her lungs, her full breasts heaving up and down. “The only reason we’re not divorced is because she wanted to wait to get an annulment or whatever the fuck they call it. And anyway, it’s not as if you’re totally innocent, are you? Have you forgotten your part in all this?”

“Well, that’s over now, Giles,” replied Vicky firmly, sputtering smoke from her lips. “I’m not going to be abused by you any longer. Bernie deserves better.”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you! What were you saying to me just this morning, for Christ's sake: ‘I'm a nasty dirty adulterous fuck-whore. Fucking punish this slut!’ Or did I imagine that? ‘Not going to be abused any longer’? Bullshit, Vic, nobody’s abusing you: you’re just a filthy slut who gets off on sucking married dick, that’s all!”

“Giles! If it hadn't been for us, she’d still be alive. Maybe not still married to you – but at least she wouldn't have pronounced that terrible curse!” Vicky paused to take another desperate drag on her cigarette. “I’ve driven my best friend to her death, Giles, and unlike you I’m not so heartless as to pretend I’m not guilty. You seduced me, and I fell for it, and in the process I’ve gone against everything I ever believed in – everything I ever thought was right and good. I’ve got to make this good again, Giles, I – OH GOD HELP ME!”

Darkness had fallen completely, apart from a thin crescent moon – and into that darkness Vicky howled, a cry of pain and anguish and shame such as she had never felt in her life before. Giles, of course, felt none of it – but spied his opportunity, and put his arms gently around her shoulders to hold her tight, feeling her body convulse in pain as she sobbed her heart out.

Giles knew the right words to say: “There there, it’s all right, Vicky, it’ll be fine, we’ll get through this together. I’ll help you, don’t worry, darling. I won’t abandon you...” He let Vicky sob a bit longer, making indeterminate soothing noises as she blubbed her way through her litany of guilt, before eventually deciding it was safe to croon, “I love you, Vicky,” and squeezing her tighter towards him.

He felt her relax, noticed her dropping her half-smoked cigarette on the ground, felt her pressing her soft full breasts against his chest. “Oh God, Giles,” she moaned, “I’m so confused, what do I do?”

Giles congratulated himself inwardly, but said nothing. Instead he looked down into Vicky’s lovely round face and kissed her gently on the forehead. She looked up. And then their lips found each other’s, mashing passionately, desperately together. Giles tasted the foul stench of ash and tar on her breath, but did not follow his instinct to recoil, for he knew what his reward would be. “Oh God,” moaned Vicky, as she felt her resolve falter, her resistance crumble. “Oh God...” She felt his erection pressing into her crotch, and she began to grind against him, desperately seeking that internal solace and acceptance which neither profane nor sacred had ever, despite her best efforts, afforded her.

Giles had never felt that kind of love before either, but, unlike Vicky, he didn’t care: what he was seeking from her was neither solace nor acceptance. Through her sweater, he cupped and kneaded her breasts, heard her moan in response. He unzipped his fly, released his cock and manoeuvred it under Vicky’s skirt, his fingers deftly slipping the gusset of her panties out of the way.

“Oh God,” moaned Vicky again, tangling tongues desperately with Giles, feeling his cock nudge against her slick vulva. “Giles, no, this is all wrong, love, no, we mustn’t do this,” she muttered, more in a vain attempt at self-absolution than genuine resistance, as Giles’ glans probed softly at her outer fuck-lips. Giles recognised the guilt-talk: he had heard it all before, and knew he didn’t need to say anything, as Vicky continued to moan, “No, this is so bad... I am so bad... bad, God help me, I am so b–... fuuuck...” Giles said nothing, but let Vicky apply the necessary gentle pressure herself, felt her wet cunt engulf his shaft, as she squealed, “Oh God, I need this so bad, Giles – fuckkkkk...”

If only every conquest were this easy, thought Giles, as he felt his cock touch bottom deep inside her hot guilty First Communion cunt.

~

D. I. McCann and D. S. Nyman sat in their office back at Headquarters, poring over all the evidence from the day. “Fuck, we've not got anywhere, have we?” shouted Jane, slamming her hand on her desk. “Secrecy, secrecy – they’re all clamming up, protecting Father Jim, protecting their reputations, protecting their fucking Church. The Bishop is having an affair with a married woman – that's common knowledge – and so he won't reveal anything about the priest. The nun knows something – but she won’t say anything because the Bishop won't let her. And where the fuck is the priest? One of them must know – but they’re not saying!”

Phil sighed sympathetically. “And the nutter ‘best friend’, with all this ‘curse’ rubbish - what the fuck?”

“Well, at least the bimbo was willing to impart some information – even if it was a total pile of superstitious horseshit.”

“She still seemed really upset, though,” replied Phil. “Yvonne wasn’t able to calm her down at all; she left still blubbing about how it was all her fault that her ‘best friend’ was dead.”

“Her ‘best friend’ whose husband she’d been fucking behind her back!” exclaimed Jane. “Thing is, until we find the priest, or find out how the girl died, we're not going to get anywhere.”

“Nothing more from the lab?”

“No, Harry’s been throwing everything at that corpse that he can – toxicology, radiology, you name it. Still no cause of death. She just died. Avada fucking kedavra... Shit.”

Phil and Jane sat brooding in silence for a while, before Phil suggested tentatively, “Well, shall we call it a day?”

Jane sighed. “Yeah, OK.... You got a date with Bob tonight?”

Phil cracked a coy smile. “Uh, yeah... Why do you ask?”

“Well, fuck his arse good and proper for me, will you? I miss him, since he left us.”

Phil cackled sympathetically. “What about you? Dave in town?”

“Nah. Conference in Edinburgh till the end of next week.”

“You be all right?”

“Got me rabbit,” smirked Jane. “Unless...”

“Unless?”

“Well, it’d be above and beyond the call of duty, of course,” she ventured.

Phil shrugged. “Friends, Jane. That’s what we’re for.”

Jane smiled – a wan, but grateful smile. “My crazy gay friend. I’m so glad you came to work for me,” she sighed, pushing her chair back from her desk, kicking off her shoes, peeling her trousers and panties down, and spreading her legs. Phil chuckled, stood up, and then flounced – in an ostentatiously unprofessional manner – around to her side of the desk, and knelt on the floor.

“Ooh, recently shaved,” he remarked, tittering again, as he admired her narrow dark brown landing strip. “Yummy!” Suddenly his voice, divested of the gravity of his professional guise, sounded ridiculously camp.

“You are incorrigible, Phil!” laughed Jane. “What kind of fucking gay are you, ogling my pussy like that?”

“A very convenient gay, Detective Inspector, who can get you off whenever you need it, without being any threat to Dave. A rabbit on legs, that’s me!” he laughed – a trilling, fey sort of laugh, almost as if to prove his point – before leaning forward to gently nuzzle her pussy.

“Oh fuck,” moaned Jane, as little sparks of pleasure began to course through her. Phil kissed up and down her thighs, before alighting with his tongue on her perineum, then flattening his tongue to draw it softly, slowly up her vulva, the tip of his tongue teasing her lips open as he went. He knew when he had reached the top of her slit, because her flaps would no longer part; and so he found her little bud, which he proceed to gently circumnavigate, slowly closing in until Jane squealed.

“Fuck, Phil, how come you do this so well, but my straight boyfriend just can’t get it right?”

“Because this is not about what I like doing, but about what you need,” said Phil, before wrapping his lips around Jane’s clitoris, tongue lapping generously between her fuck-lips, and sliding two upturned fingers into her slippery hole. Soon his whole attention was devoted to pleasuring his boss, upper lip tickling her clit, tongue probing deep into her pussy, slurping sticky gloop out and smothering it across her flaring vulva, whilst his fingers beckoned “come hither” in her pungent depths, stroking just the right internal spot to bring her towards ecstasy.

Soon Jane was squirming and squealing, “Oh yes, oh yes, my good pussy-licking Detective Sergeant, my fine upstanding cunt-eating queer, you know how to make your boss feel good, don’t you? That’s how to solve a fucking murder case, how to fucking clear my head, fucking give me head, fucking oh yeah Jesus motherf–”

But Jane’s peak never came, for it was then that the phone rang. “FUCK!” roared Jane – but it was a cry of frustration, not of pleasure.

“Let it go, let it go, Jane” entreated Phil, his lips wrapped firmly around her clit, his tongue lapping efficiently between her cunt-lips, as his two curled fingers continued to stroke her inner front wall.

“No, I can't – fucking – not when I’ve been interrupted. Fuck!” swore the Detective Inspector, as she pushed Phil away from her crotch and reached for the phone. “YES?!” she bellowed into the receiver. “Wha– what? ... Yeah, no, it’s all right, Denise, sorry for shouting, yeah, go ahead... Fuck… You... Wha–... WHAT? ANOTHER?! No fucking way, what do you mean? ... DNA match? ... Cause of death? ... Oh motherfuck... Where? ... Jesus fucking Christ... OK, I’ll just tell Phil, and then we’ll get back to you.”

Jane slammed the phone down, and thumped her desk hard with her fist. “FUCK!” she screamed. Phil looked up quizzically, his smooth face glistening, his eyebrows raised.

“Another body,” she snarled. Neepside, Sheffield. Same MO. Father Wright’s cum dripping out of her cunt – DNA proves it. No discernible cause of death.”

“Shit,” said Phil, as he sucked his fingers clean.

“Go and wash your face and hands, Phil; we’re off to Yorkshire. Fuck…”

“What, ‘oop nawth’, now?” frowned Phil.

“This can’t wait, Phil, sorry. Will Bob be all right? We’ll be back tonight, as soon as we can.”

Phil paused, grimacing slightly. “Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be all right… yeah, sure… okay, come on, then…” He set his jaw, and stood up.

It was three in the morning before Detective Inspector Jane McCann crawled into her bed. Exhausted though she was, she could not sleep, for now there were two dead bodies haunting her: one a brown-haired phone-sex-purveying jilted Catholic wife on a church altar in Surrey, another a bleached-blond Sheffield prostitute lying on her filthy cot surrounded by soiled condoms and used syringes; both of them with their legs wide open, a Catholic priest’s semen seeping from their cunts.

Jane had dropped Phil back at his flat on the way home, apologising for the umpteenth time for ruining his evening with Bob. Realising that her sexual desire remained unsated after the interruption of the previous evening, she had brought herself off at home swiftly and unceremoniously with her fingers – no call for the rabbit tonight: that demanded time and attention, and she was not in the right mood for that.

Actually, she was not even in the mood for fingers either this morning. But orgasm helped her work off her mental frustration – and there was plenty of that. What the fuck is going on? she kept asking herself. And how? And why? And where is the priest? And how come he is still at large, despite the fact that every fucking police force in the country is looking for him?

Jane dozed fitfully, but was awoken shortly after eight o’clock by the phone. Blearily she answered, “Yes…?”

“Detective Inspector?” The voice was female, with a foreign accent – perhaps Spanish or Latin American of some description – and sounded slightly nervous, though vaguely familiar. If Jane had been more awake, she would have recognised who it was. “Inspector, this is Sister Mariana – from the Church of the Immaculate Conception. I need to speak to you. But somewhere where we won’t be seen.”

“Do you have information about Father Wright’s whereabouts?” asked the Inspector urgently.

“Not exactly – but I know what’s going on – and I can help,” replied the nun.

“What do you mean, you ‘know what’s going on’?”

“Has there been someone else?”

“Someone else?”

“Another victim – another body?”

“How the hell do you know that?” asked the Inspector.

“I know this curse; I know how it works. And I know Father Jim’s history.”

“This ‘curse’ again – what on earth?” Jane rolled her eyes in disbelief. “OK, OK, let’s meet. How about at the police station, in an hour or so?”

“No, I might be seen. There are people who mustn’t know. Meet me on the corner opposite the Town Hall. I’ll be in civvies. Pick me up in your car; we can drive into the countryside. Then I can speak freely.”

~

An hour later, Jane was driving a small olive-skinned woman through the forests of East Berkshire in her unmarked police car. Without her habit – particularly without the wimple – Sister Mariana appeared less severe than she had the previous day. Her long brown hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, but clearly had a bit of natural curl to it, gracefully framing a soft face with penetrating green eyes. Though dressed in nothing more than a calf-length blue skirt, high-buttoned white blouse and light blue cardigan, Jane couldn’t help noticing her broad hips, and the outline of a pair of full breasts.

Despite the air of naïveté and vulnerability that her appearance gave her, Sister Mariana was clearly determined not to seem a pushover. “You don’t believe in curses, do you?” she asked, in what Jane thought sounded like a slightly accusatory tone of voice.

“Of course not, Sister. I’m a detective. I look for evidence, for causality. In this case, I haven’t found any yet.”

“Nor will you, if that is your attitude,” replied the nun, in a tone of voice which she presumably thought meaningful, but which Jane found infuriatingly self-righteous.

“How do you mean?” retorted Jane.

“Father Jim is a weak-willed man. He has been so ever since I met him, when he first came to the parish. You found his pornography, I notice. And presumably you know about the phone calls?”

“With the deceased? Yes. How did you –?”

“In the Catholic Church we look out for each other. Bishop Kieran knows what it’s like to be weak-willed. He asked me to keep an eye out. And Vicky told me about the curse.”

“This ‘curse’ again!” Jane cried out in frustration. “Such things don't exist, Sister Mariana. I don't hold with all this mumbo-jumbo, it’s –”

“You don’t have to ‘hold with’ it, Detective Inspector, any more than a flea has to ‘hold with’ the elephant whose backside he finds himself sitting on. It’s just the reality. Bernadette called the curse down on herself. Jim, poor fool, tried to lift it – but he had no idea what he was doing, so it just transferred itself to him. And there it will linger, killing one girl after another, until you find him and stop him.”

“So where’s he gone, dammit? If you’re ‘looking out for him’ all the time, you must know where he’s hiding. Is the Bishop hiding him somewhere?”

“No, he’s not clever enough for that. Neither of them is. This is the Catholic Church we’re talking about: only the women know what’s really –”

Jane’s mobile phone rang, and she pulled over into a layby to answer it. “Hello? ... Oh, Denise, for God’s sake tell me you’ve got some good news... WHAT?! WHERE? ... Oh God… Okay, I’ll go and pick up Phil, and we can go together.”

Jane threw her phone into the glove compartment and slammed it shut, swearing, “SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!” before remembering that she was in the presence of a nun, and apologising.

“Another dead girl?” asked Sister Mariana blandly, making the sign of the cross.

“Yes, found in Father Wright’s car this time. Same MO, same DNA in the semen.”

“Where?”

“Eden Valley. Cumbria. Seemingly a hiker: there was a backpack.”

“Ah!” replied the nun knowingly.

“What? Do you know where he's headed?”

“Possibly. There’s a place he often speaks about.”

“What sort of place?”

“Well, a sort of chapel, I suppose: I know where it is.”

“Take me there, Sister. We’ll go and pick up Detective Sergeant Nyman first.”

“And Vicky.”

“Vicky? Victoria Berry? Why?”

“I will need her, to lift the curse.”

“What? You can lift this ‘curse’?”

“Well, not as such. But I know the only way this devastation can be ended.”

Jane shook her head in disbelief. “Nutters. Fucking nutters, the whole lot of you.”

“Complained the flea,” replied Sister Mariana.

~

Father Jim Wright was running. “Oh God,” he trembled, “help me. What have I done now?” Three miles behind him, in a layby off the A6, sat his abandoned car. And in the back seat lay a girl called – he thought – Melissa, her lower half naked, his semen slowly leaking from her pussy.

She was beautiful, thought Jim. Her wide face, framed by a burst of golden curls, had shone with glory and light. Her breasts had pressed bounteously against Jim’s chest. Her cunt had been tight and pink and neatly-shaven, squeezing his cock with happy delight as she giggled on the back seat of his car in the morning sunlight.

He had thought that this one would be different. Surely someone this beautiful, this lovely, such a tribute to God's creation (so different from the one last night!) – surely the curse will not touch her, he had surmised. But now he thought: What a damned fool am I…

There was only one thing for it now, only one place he knew he could go, where perhaps there might be some hope, where maybe all this could be brought to an end. It surely was no coincidence that his journey had already taken him this far. He knew the place lay over the next range of hills, westwards towards the Lakes. And so Father Jim Wright kept running. And running. And he would not stop till he found his place of salvation.

~

Now there were four people in Detective Inspector McCann’s car, speeding northwest up the motorway. Phil Nyman rode shotgun, his eyes red and bleary, fitfully dozing: Jane McCann smiled inwardly, wondering if he had in fact spent the remainder of last night cavorting with Bob – but, out of respect for the nun in the back seat, she did not ask. Jane kept herself awake with several cups of strong coffee bought from successive service stations, all of them periodically announcing their titles like ancient ceremonial milestones: Cherwell Valley, Sandbach, Lymm, Charnock Richard – but none of them (certainly not the coffee) living up to the atmospheric promise of the name.

In the backseat, Vicky and Mariana chatted quietly. Jane was at first worried about how the nun and the adulterous slut would get on: but they seemed to know each other well, and slipped comfortably into parish small-talk. And when Sister Mariana announced that it was time for her to say her morning Office, followed by her Rosary, Vicky gladly joined in with her. Weird, these Catholics, thought Jane. They pray together, go to church together – and then fuck around behind each other’s backs without batting an eye... She would have liked to share her ruminations with Phil, but thought that would be a bit indelicate in present company; besides, Phil looked completely exhausted, or hungover. Or maybe fucked-out?

Once Mariana and Vicky had settled into Lauds, the wall-to-wall monotony of their orisons allowed Jane to feel it was safe to ask Phil, sotto voce, how his night had been.

Phil hesitated, before muttering in a deadpan voice, “Bob’s left me,” as he looked straight ahead at the tarmac pounding beneath them.

“What?” whispered Jane in shock.

“Said last night was the last straw. He’s been complaining for some time how my work is getting in the way of us. Last night was kind of our anniversary – well, depending on how you count it: first kiss, I guess. It’s never meant a lot to me – call me callous if you like – but well, anyway, last night he’d bought me flowers, and chocolate, and booked a surprise meal at our favourite restaurant – and then I just didn’t turn up... I mean, it wasn’t just that, of course – we’ve been struggling for a while and... well, when I eventually got home this morning, he’d left me a ‘Dear John’.”

“Oh shit,” whispered Jane, trying not to disturb the domestic liturgy which continued to drone on in the back seat. She paused a while, before venturing to ask, “How are you feeling?”

There was no answer. Jane glanced quickly sideways, only to see Phil staring doggedly forwards at the road, his jaw locked in a vain attempt to prevent it trembling, tears leaking unstaunched down his smooth cheeks. “Oh God, Phil, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

In the back seat, Vicky and Mariana were praying:

Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and redeemed his people, and hath raised up a mighty salvation for us in the house of his servant David; that we should be saved from our enemies and from the hands of all that hate us…

That Vicky and Mariana were so fully occupied in the back seat gave Phil some courage to say more to Jane, as he gradually regained his composure. “Hey, it’s not as if he was a saint or anything,” he complained. “I mean, he cheated on me, you know. I never betrayed him.”

“Er... unless you count eating my pussy on a couple of occasions,” quipped Jane.

“Yeah, OK, but I don’t count that as cheating. That’s just me being friendly, isn’t it? Saving your batteries on the old rabbit,” giggled Phil, his demeanour relaxing.

“Positively philanthropic,” laughed Jane. “You want me to return the favour?”

“Er... what do you mean?” Phil looked slightly alarmed.

“Well, above and beyond the call of duty, of course,” Jane grinned as she reached out her left arm and gave Phil’s crotch a squeeze. “But that’s what friends are for...”

“Jane!” whispered Phil. “There’s a nun in the back.”

And indeed there was, and she was now reciting:

… to perform the oath which he swore to our forefather Abraham that he would give us: that we being delivered out of the hands of our enemies might serve him without fear in holiness and righteousness before him all the days of our life…

“Shh!” replied the Detective Inspector, keeping her eyes on the road and her right hand on the steering wheel, as she deftly unzipped her Sergeant’s fly and removed his flaccid penis.

“But Jane, you’re driving!” remonstrated Phil.

“I’ve done this before,” replied Jane off-handedly, as she began to gently massage Phil’s cock into an erection. “Dave hates driving long-distance. But he loves sitting in the front passenger seat whilst I drive. See why?” She flicked the right indicator, pulling out into the middle lane to overtake a large reticulated lorry.

“Jane, I’m gay...” pleaded Phil, somewhat half-heartedly.

“Yeah, and you ate my cunt last night, gay boy,” grinned Jane. “If you’re so gay, tell me to stop, go on, I dare you!” she challenged, as she felt his cock stiffen further to her touch. But Phil just moaned and rolled his eyes upwards in pleasure.

Sister Mariana’s Benedictus was still in full swing, providing an unobtrusive soundtrack to Phil’s burgeoning ecstasy:

… to give knowledge of salvation unto his people for the remission of their sins, through the tender mercy of our God; to give light to them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death…

Smirking, Jane reached forward, flicked on the police siren and flashing blue lights on her unmarked car, pulled into the fast lane, and accelerated to ninety. “See, Phil,” she said, her voice masked from the rear passengers by the siren now wailing furiously, “I like stroking dick. And I bet you like having your dick stroked, don’t you, Sergeant?” Phil nodded, groaning incoherently.

Jane went on: “I bet you like it when Bob strokes your dick, don’t you, Phil? Is that what you’re missing? Well, close your eyes and pretend it’s Bob wrapping his palm around your cock now.” She spat surreptitiously into her hand. “Here he is now, Phil, starting off nice and slow, peeling back that foreskin, feeling your pre-cum begin to leak from your cockhead – ooh, that’s good, Phil, yeah, like that!” Jane grinned, even as she kept her eyes on the road, watching the other cars scurry out of her way as her siren continued to wail.

Phil’s cock was beginning to twitch with pleasure, as Jane picked up the pace of her stroking. “I bet Bob doesn’t stop there, though, Phil, does he? I bet he likes it when you slide this stiff cock into his arse, doesn’t he? Go on, Detective Sergeant, make like you’re fucking that tight manhole now, grab his hips, pound that fucking shithole hard with that stiff cock of yours. Are you going to squirt all your hot cum now, Phil? Go on, spurt it deep inside his arsehole, fill up your dirty faithless fucking ex-lover with all your hot cum, go on, go on – oh yessss!”

Phil roared with pleasure, the sound of his voice barely masked by the wailing of the siren, as his cock jerked and exploded, his cum spurting like a geyser, some flying across Jane’s dashboard onto the windscreen, some landing back into his crotch and over his boss’s left hand. “Fuuuuckkkk…” he moaned, as quietly as he could under the circumstances, as happy sweat poured off his forehead and he revelled in the feeling of blessed release.

Jane lifted her hand to Phil’s face so he could lick off the residual semen which dangled from her fingers. Her eyes still on the road, she grinned, as Phil laughed with mingled relief and embarrassment. Then she turned off the siren, slowed down, signalled carefully, and returned to the inside lane.

Mariana and Vicky seemed by now to be mid-Magnificat:

… He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts; he hath put down the mighty from their seat and hath exalted the humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things…

“Better, my friend?” asked Jane.

Phil just laughed.

And in her rear-view mirror Jane spied Sister Mariana chuckling and rolling her eyes knowingly.

~

At last! thought Father Jim, as he crested a ridge and saw his destination waiting for him in the distance. And how beautiful it was, how much – if this were normal circumstances – he would have loved to sit there a while and drink in the view: a broad stone circle, about thirty or forty yards wide, built on a flat hilltop at the confluence of three ridges, surrounded by heather-clad mountains. There was a sudden drop beyond it, between two of the ridges; but Jim knew he could make his way safely along his current watershed to reach his destination.

This is where it must be done, thought Father Jim. Here must all tears be wiped away. There must be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain; for the former things must pass away. Here must all be made new.

The sun shone bright and warm today, even as dark grey clouds scudded across the sky, giving the impression of a constantly shifting landscape, a kaleidoscope created by the Almighty to show off the glory of His creation. As if to emphasise this fact, Jim could just descry a large rough-hewn stone cross erected at the near end of the broad, low, flat stone altar at the centre of the stone circle. Briefly, he knelt in homage, whispering:

O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, your will be done.

Then Father Jim got up and continued on the last leg of his journey. He was not running anymore, for he knew that the hour was at hand.

~

It was not until lunch – Marks and Spencer’s sandwiches eaten on a grubby grass bank at the edge of the car park at one of many indistinguishable motorway services – that Jane was able to speak to Mariana privately again. Phil had gone to the toilet, and Vicky had moved some thirty yards downwind to have a cigarette. “So, where are you taking me, Mariana?” asked Jane with, admittedly, a touch of aggression in her voice.

“The Secgan Ring,” she replied, smiling enigmatically.

“Is that where Father James is hiding?”

“I don’t think he’ll be hiding, as such. But he’ll be there. I think he’s expecting us.”

Jane sighed. “Why there? If he’s not in hiding, why doesn’t he just give himself up? There’s no evidence he actually killed these women; all we need to do is bring him in for questioning, to find out how they died.”

“He will tell you the same thing I have been telling you, Inspector. And you still won’t believe it.”

“This damned ‘curse’ again!” spat Jane in frustration. “All right, if you’re so clever, you tell me how it works.”

“When was the last time you read the Ten Commandments, Inspector?” Sister Mariana’s tone of voice, Jane thought, was sounding distinctly more accusatory than before.

“Er… probably never,” fumbled Jane, “but – dammit, there you go again, with your supercilious holier-than-thou attitude – what’s the Ten Commandments got to do with anything?”

The nun chuckled, took a deep breath, and recited, “Thou shalt not commit adultery. Neither shalt thou go up by steps unto mine altar, that thy nakedness be not discovered thereon. I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers unto the third and fourth generation.”

“OK, so what are you saying?” retorted Jane. “That Father Wright has been a bad boy, and that God is punishing him? Fine, whatever – but for God’s sake, why are all these girls dying?!”

“There is no punishment at work here, Inspector. Neither Bernadette nor Jim understood the implications of her curse, just as Vicky and Giles had no idea of the implications of their adultery. Their iniquity is being visited upon generation after generation of the curse’s victims – until it ends.”

Jane scoffed loudly. “And just how does it end, then?”

“This curse has altered reality. It ends only when the curse-bearer willingly accepts his or her eternal destiny, in expiation.”

Jane looked at Mariana in bewilderment. “Meaning?”

“Whenever the actions of any curse-bearer impinge upon the curse, in this instance through sexual intercourse, then either party may suffer the consequence, but the curse will subsist in the survivor. Only if both are in a state of grace, and ready to embrace eternal life, will the chain end… That is why Vicky is here.”

Jane stared aghast at the nun, so placid and soft-faced, yet apparently so clinical in her dissection of life and death. “So you mean that…?” She gestured surreptitiously toward Vicky, who was still sitting some distance away, looking out over the car park, chain-lighting a new cigarette with the butt of her previous one.

“Yes,” said the nun, without emotion. “She knows this is necessary. And she wants this – to expiate her guilt in bringing about the death of her best friend.”

Jane had had quite enough: she stood up in frustration, as her contempt boiled over. “This is insane, Mariana. Whatever you say, this is utter bullshit. You’re setting up these two damaged, confused individuals to… to what exactly? Fuck each other at some stone circle in the middle of nowhere, because of some crackpot notion you have about a non-existent ‘curse’. Surely even for a Catholic, this is beyond the pale – what the hell?!”

“Sometimes the elephant’s bottom is so big,” smiled Sister Mariana, “that not just the flea, but the entire world, can’t see around it. Wait and see, Inspector.”

Jane wanted to respond, but did not have time to before Vicky, having finished her cigarette, returned, quietly taking the nun’s hand and squeezing it. “Don’t worry, Inspector”, said the blonde. “I told you, none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for me. Mariana has explained it all. I am ready to be set free, and to be reconciled to Bernie, and to Father Jim: it’s the right thing to do.”

Jane McCann shook her head in dismay and disbelief.

~

Seventeen-year-old Miss Jennifer Boldacre giggled as she reclined naked on the king-sized bed, her back propped up on pillows, her long black hair draped around her full breasts. Her legs were splayed wide to expose her pink cunt, hairless apart from a thick but neatly trimmed bush poised on its north face. Beneath her blindfold, she blushed as she heard a man’s voice saying: “Play with yourself for me, Jenny.”

Jenny hesitated, pouted her lips sheepishly, then curled one finger into her pussy. She withdrew it and licked it, savouring the pungent sweetness, and giggled again. “Is that how you like it, baby?” she mewed, holding out her arms awhile as if to beckon the man to join her on the bed. But there was no answer, and she could see nothing. Uncertainly, she began to slide two fingers in and out of her cunt, pausing every now and then to rub her clit. She asked again, “You like that, babe?”

“Good, Jenny. But I like it dirty. Really dirty. You want me, you’d better prove how fucking filthy can you be.”

Jenny wasn’t entirely sure what kind of “filthy” was required, but she decided to collect some of her warm fuck-slime, reach further around her perineum, and paint some of the juice on the pucker of her own arsehole. She gently pushed her middle finger inwards, gasping as her sphincter clenched in surprise.

This time, she heard a chuckle of approval. “Good, Jenny, good. Go on, play with your arsehole and cunt for me.”

Jenny felt relieved to receive the vote of approval. She used two fingers of one hand to stretch her cunt wide open, displaying the full glory of her glistening pink fuck-flesh, even as the middle finger of the other hand continued to probe deeper into her arse.

“Good, Jenny. Keep doing that. But talk to me. I want to hear some filthy shit coming from your mouth.”

Filthy perv, groaned Jenny inwardly. What is it about men? But she was a trooper, and knew the prize she was after, so she girded her loins (metaphorically speaking), and spat out: “Oh yeah, I’m gonna frig both my holes for you, baby. You like watching that, don’t you, you fucking perv?”

The man laughed. “I like watching a filthy slut play with herself,” he replied breathlessly. “Especially dirty fucking church sluts like you.”

Success, thought Jenny: she was clearly on the right track here. She giggled again, as she continued to slide one finger in and out of her arsehole, while the other hand frigged her cunt, and the thumb of that same hand rubbed her swelling clit. “I like frigging both my slut holes, baby. ‘Cause I’m a dirty blindfold fuck-bitch, ooh yeah –” A shiver spread through her body, as she felt her pleasure build.

“Good, Jenny, I knew a well brought-up church-going whore like you would be good at this,” replied the voice. “Rub yourself off for me, show me what you’re like when you come all over your fucking fingers. Show me what you do when you jerk off in the back row at mass.”

“Oh yeah, you want to watch me fucking come, babe?” Jenny squealed, picking up the pace of both her cunt-frigging and her dirty-talk. “Watch this filthy fucking Catholic Alpha slut come for you then. Watch me Nicky Gumbel my fucking cunt, till I come all over my fucking fingers, baby! Watch me come with my finger stuck up my holy fucking Christian arsehole, fuck yeaaahhh!” Soon her cunt spasmed and squirted, and she felt her bottom-hole pulsate around her finger as she screeched in pleasure: “Oh yeah, oh fucking Jesus, watch me fucking cummmm…!”

As her ecstasy subsided, Jenny licked her fingers, tasting the fragrance of both her holes, before giggling, “Was that good, bad boy? You gonna fuck my nice Catholic throat with that big dick now?”

She heard her interlocutor approach the bed, felt his cock nudging gently at her face, pre-cum smearing onto her cheek. Jenny stuck her tongue out to taste the pungent shaft, then licked her lips before asking, “We won’t be interrupted though, will we, babe? Vicky not coming back today then?”

Giles Byard-Jones gently pulled off Jenny’s blindfold, before replying: “No, I don’t think Vicky’s ever coming back, Jenny. Now suck my cock like a good whore.”

~

Evening was approaching at the Secgan Ring, as Father James Wright knelt in prayer before the low stone altar, facing the rough-hewn stone cross, approximately six feet tall, which stood at its head. His heart was stilled now, his brow unfurrowed, for he knew what must be. And as he knelt, he caught sight of a party of four cresting the hill and approaching along the ridge. He knew who they were. And he closed his eyes and prayed with joy:

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

It did not seem long before he heard a voice saying softly, “Are you ready, Jim?” Jim recognised who it was by the accent.

“So good of you to come, Mari. God bless you,” said the priest, lifting his head to see the nun smiling at him, with a man and woman he didn’t recognise standing back by one of the menhirs, watching.

“I’ve brought a couple of police officers, I’m afraid,” said the nun. “But I don’t think they’ll interfere.”

“No… it’s not as if I’ve committed a crime as such, is it?” chuckled the priest sheepishly. “Oh Mari, you must think so ill of me; I am so sorry to put you through this.”

“Friends, Jim. That’s what we’re for, no? But… I’ve also brought Vicky.”

Jim started. “Vicky?!” He frowned, thought, and then realised. “Oh no, is that necessary? Surely she can be spared!” He stood up swiftly.

“I think we have no choice, Jim,” said Mariana, as she waved to Vicky and beckoned her forward. “Someone has to, or the curse cannot end.”

“I am so sorry, Vicky,” said Jim, once the blonde girl had joined them. “I have been such a fool.”

“Us both, Father. But the important thing is that we can end this. Mariana, will you hear our confessions?”

Phil and Jane stood in the background watching as fallen priest and fallen woman knelt before the nun. “What the fuck is going on, Jane?” asked Phil impatiently. “Aren’t you going to arrest him – or at least question him?”

“Wait, Phil, wait. I don’t understand what’s happening either. But Mariana thinks she can bring this to a close. Let her speak with them. If all else fails, we can pull him in afterwards.”

“After what? What are they going to do?”

“Sh – just wait…” said Jane, watching as both Jim and Vicky continued to kneel side by side on the rough ground facing the cross, the setting sun casting their shadows lengthwise up the altar. Mariana stood facing them, her arms stretched out, almost cruciform, and began to recite:

And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery. “Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?” But Jesus said unto them, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”

“This is ridiculous!” grumbled Phil. What are they going to do – have a whole fucking religious service whilst we stand here watching?”

“If only, Phil,” replied Jane quietly. “But I think even we are about to be shocked,” she added, as Mariana continued:

And they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last: and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst. When Jesus had lifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, “Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?” She said, “No man, Lord.” And Jesus said unto her, “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.”

Mariana lowered her arms, clasped her hands over her abdomen, and began to walk back along the east ridge, the route by which they had originally approached the stone circle, beckoning to Jane and Phil to go with her. Puzzled but compliant, they followed, as Mariana continued to recite:

Remember, I have formed thee; thou art my servant. O Israel, thou shalt not be forgotten of me. I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins. Return unto me, for I have redeemed thee.

When they reached the crest of the east ridge, Mariana turned – and so did Jane and Phil. Straining their eyes against the setting sun, Phil and Jane gasped – for Jim and Vicky were now naked, lying together atop the stone altar. The setting sun had burst through the dark Cumbrian clouds, so that only their two silhouettes could be descried in the distance – but now joined as one flesh. “My God, they’re fucking!” exclaimed Phil, as they watched Jim and Vicky embracing, their outline of their bodies turned by the setting sun into a twisting, curling, rolling, writhing black cut-out, overseen by the rough silhouette of the cross. Mariana’s arms were outstretched again, but now lifted up towards the sky, as she called out across the hilltop:

Sing, O ye heavens, for the Lord hath done it: shout, ye lower parts of the earth; break forth into singing, ye mountains, for the Lord hath redeemed you, and glorified himself in you.

“Jane, what the fuck?!” whispered Phil. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

“No, but… just let it go, Phil, let it go,” she said. “See, it’s like you and me are fleas on the backside of an elephant. The universe is moving around us in ways which are beyond the reach of our vision. I think Mariana can see just a teensy bit further than we can; let her get on with it.”

The nun was doing just that, as she continued to call:

“I am the Lord that maketh all things; that stretcheth forth the heavens alone; that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself; that frustrateth the tokens of the liars, and maketh diviners mad; that turneth wise men backward, and maketh their knowledge foolish.”

The sun was touching the horizon now, its broad red glow spreading horizontally, making the writhing, wriggling, curling silhouette on the altar stand out with black-and-white clarity. Intermittently, Jane could make out the curvaceous buxom form of Vicky, her full round breasts and buttocks bouncing and jiggling; Jim’s shape, older, straighter, but, divested of his clerical garb, lithe and energetic, his stiff penis forming a bridge between their two bodies; and then, best of all, the two of them joined, multiform, flexible, stretching, lunging, combining and recombining, as if their ecstasy were straining to touch eternity.

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people…

The sun was beginning to disappear beneath the horizon. “Wait,” said Phil to Jane, “you can’t just leave them out there in the dark. He might escape again. And we need to take Vicky home, don’t we?”

Jane paused and sighed. “I don’t think they’ll be coming home, Phil,” she said, shaking her head. “Will they, Mariana?”

Barely noticeably, and still praying out loud, the nun shook her head. The flexiform black silhouette on the altar was more animated than ever now – writhing, stretching, rising and falling, one flesh seemingly undivided. From the setting sun beyond came a shaft of light which passed through a cleft in one of the standing stones, creating the effect of a pillar of fire which appeared to hover above the altar and envelop the outline of the two penitents joined. Mariana lowered her hands, put her palms together, and knelt, as she said, more quietly now:

Into your hands, Father of mercies, we commend our brother and sister, in the sure and certain hope that, together with all who have died in Christ, they will rise with Him on the last day.

Phil gasped, and clasped his hand over his mouth in belated horror-filled realisation, as Mariana continued to pray:

Merciful Lord, turn toward us and listen to our prayers: open the gates of paradise to your servants and help us who remain to comfort one another with assurances of faith, until we all meet in Christ and are with you and with our brother and sister for ever.

Jim and Vicky, still copulating, rose as one, the full length of their bodies pressed against each other’s, arms stretched wide. Their joint silhouette found that same cruciform outline, and now they appeared to be subsumed into it, so that nothing was visible but the cross, yet seemingly writhing, twisting and pulsating, enveloped by its pillar of fire.

Sound an alarm in my holy mountain. Let all the inhabitants of the land tremble, for behind them a flame burneth. I will shew wonders in the heavens and in the earth, blood, and fire, and pillars of smoke. The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood. And it shall come to pass, that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be delivered.

A new dark cloud scudded across the corner of that small part of the sun which remained visible over the horizon. There was a deep rumble of thunder which seemed to envelop the whole mountain, and in an instant the pillar of fire became a pillar of cloud, darkness fell, and stone circle, altar, cross and Jim and Vicky’s writhing silhouette disappeared from sight. High above there shone a dark red moon, across which flew momentarily the outline of a large white dove. Then that too disappeared behind black cloud – and there was darkness over the land.

Out of that darkness could be heard Mariana’s voice:

May the Angels lead them into paradise; may the martyrs receive them at their coming, and lead them into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the choir of angels receive them, and with Lazarus, who once was poor, may they have everlasting rest.

Amen.

“Amen,” muttered Jane.

“Fuck,” said Phil.

~

Meanwhile, some three hundred miles south-southeast, Miss Jennifer Boldacre screeched in triumph, as Giles Byard-Jones emptied his balls deep into her hot gaping rectum. Not far away, Bishop Kieran Conway chuckled, as he kissed Mrs Amanda Hutchinson full on the lips and slid his penis into her vagina.

None of them noticed that the very weft and warp of the Universe had changed. But then – as Sister Mariana might have said – fleas don’t notice things like that.

(c) GrushaVashnadze 2021. All rights reserved.