Sin To See You Again

Author's note:

A warning! Things take a turn for the violent and non-consensual about halfway through. If that might upset you, don't read past '

You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too'.

Enjoy!

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Do not be hasty in the laying on of hands, and do not share in the sins of others. Keep yourselves pure.

1 Timothy 5:22

As the rest of the bible study bowed their heads, Moira gazed at Father Paul's hands, folded in prayer. She wasn't listening. There was no way she could concentrate on his words, not with the filthy thoughts flitting through her mind.

She envisioned palms smoothing over bare expanses of skin, fingers kneading the flesh of her thighs, kissing the sweat-salted skin of his temple as she wrapped a hand around him, lazily stroking him to climax. What would he look like, open-mouthed and gasping in pleasure? How would his voice crack as she brought him to the brink?

Moira shifted in her seat, and the skin of her damp thighs rubbed together under her woollen skirt. She was going to break her promise to herself that night, she knew. She needed this--she had been thinking underwater all week, barely able to string a prayer together. Just one more little release wouldn't hurt--if anything, it would cleanse her, purge her of the wild thoughts clouding her mind. She wasn't a lecherous sinner, not truly--she was just trading a minor sin for the sake of higher piety. God would understand.

Who was she kidding? A sin was a sin was a sin, and Moira was drowning in it.

A chorus of 'Amen' jolted Moira back into the church hall, and soon enough, the congregation was packing up. Chairs screeched along hardwood floors, biscuits and lemon slices tucked away in Tupperware containers. Bibles closed, hands shaken, goodbyes exchanged, until Moria and Paul were alone in the empty church.

Paul flashed a dimpled grin Moira's way, and Moira's polite smile in response felt more like a grimace. She was crushed by guilt. How could she indulge those filthy daydreams about him? If only he know how desperately she wanted to make a sinner of him, he wouldn't be so friendly towards her.

'You're all good to get home?' Paul asked.

Moira nodded. 'Yes, Father.' A pause. 'I'd actually like to stay a while, if that's no trouble.'

'Of course,' said Paul. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, and Moira's heartbeat thundered in her ribcage. 'I too feel closer to God in an empty church.'

The silence grew thick and awkward between them, as Moira kept her gaze steadfastly aimed at the floor, until Paul cleared his throat.

'Moira, forgive me if this is out of line, but I notice you've been spending more time by yourself after bible study. Is everything okay? If anything has been troubling you, I'm more than happy to lend an ear.'

Could she? Could she find forgiveness for her sexual sin in Father Paul? Could she find the strength to open her heart to the very man who has tormented her sleepless nights?

'No,' she replied. 'I mean, thank you, Father. That's very kind of you. But I think...' Moira's mouth twisted. Excuses eluded her.

'I understand,' said Paul. He handed her the keys to the church. 'Remember to lock up behind you and return the keys to the rectory. I'll be up late preparing for Sunday, so if you find you've changed your mind, I'd be happy to offer you a cup of tea and some counsel.'

Moira fingered the key in her palm. She couldn't look at him, and her face burned with shame. How could he be so kind to someone as depraved as her? He had no idea what she was really going to do once he left. 'Thank you, Father.'

The heavy wooden doors echoed as they shut behind him, and Moira was alone in the church.

She took a moment to bask in the emptiness, walking up the aisles, skating her hands over oak pews. Dust moats glowed in the rays of stained-glass tinted moonlight.

Maybe Father Paul felt closer to God like this, but Moira had never felt more abandoned. God would turn her away at the gates of Heaven, and she would understand. This wasn't just a sexual sin, this was far, far worse--this was spitting in the face of all that was holy.

Perhaps if she had married young, like her peers, she wouldn't be in this position. She would have a husband who could attend to her urges, she would be producing offspring and fulfilling her role as a woman.

Instead, here she was. Unmarried and barren, bribing a creature she's pulled from the depths of Hell to attend to her perverse desires in exchange for her Soul.

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May prayer be set before you like incense; may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice.

Psalms 141:2

Behind the pulpit, beneath the carpet, a loose floorboard guarded a chest.

Inside the chest:

Five red candles, burnt to nearly to nubs;

One matchbook;

One pocket knife;

Three glass jars of various foul-smelling herbs;

One wooden bowl;

One leather bound spell book, the parchment yellowed and crumbling.

At the foot of the pulpit sat a heavy rug. Moira hefted it over itself, revealing the summoning circle painted beneath. As she lit the candles at each point of the pentagram, Moira noted portions of the sigils where the maroon paint had begun to chip away. Concerning, but not urgent. Moving along, she prepared the bowl of herbs, seasoned with a drop of her blood, then stood outside the circle with the impeccable posture of an army general, cradling the open spell book. She knew the summoning incantation verbatim by now, but there was something comforting about the old book, the solid weight of it, the musty yellowed pages, the worn leather.

There must be something wrong with her, the relief this ritual brought her. The taste of the words in her mouth, the familiarity of them.

Nobody was out of God's reach, and nothing could snatch a child of God from His hand, but surely... Surely Moira was some exception? There must be something fundamentally irredeemable about this. Something must have gone wrong when her soul was knit together, and now it had decayed inside her, leaving a cavernous emptiness in its stead. A gaping, yawning void where her soul should be, yearning to be filled with pleasure or passion or gluttonous hedonism to stave away the hollow feeling in her gut.

There she stood at the edge of the circle, waiting for him to appear. The bowl of herbs sizzled, and a twist of smoke snaked through the air. There was a deep rumbling; Moira could feel it from the soles of her feet, vibrating through her bones, prickling the hairs of her arms.

The candles went out.

From the darkness, a voice: 'Ahh, Moira. Always a pleasure.'

The summoning circle lit up a neon red glow, illuminating the demon from below. There he was. Tall and crimson, standing bare and upright, here to do her bidding.

He bowed deeply, serpentine tail flicking behind him. His eyes glowed yellow, slits for pupils.

'Welcome back,' said Moira, voice cold and impersonal as steel, betraying none of the gooey heat pooling in her belly at the sight of him. 'Don't get too comfortable. This will be quick.' The scratch of an itch, nothing more.

He chuckled, the red light of the sigils glinting off his fangs. 'So severe, like a school mistress. You need to lighten up, Miss Moira.'

Moira's lips hardened into a thin line. 'No. Let's just get on with it. This is the last time I call on you.'

His deep belly laugh reverberated through the vaulted ceilings.

'What?' Moira demanded. 'What's so funny?'

'That was what you said the last time you summoned me, which, if I recall correctly, was barely seventy-two hours ago,' he said, his face a taunting grin. 'And the time before that, barely a week previous. I may as well stay up here as your permanent plaything--there isn't any point sailing across the Styx again if I'm only called back as soon as I arrive.'

Moira folded her arms. She stood ramrod straight. 'I'm serious this time. This is the final time I call you.'

'Mmm. You couldn't give this up if you wanted to. You've only had a taste of the pleasure we can offer you from below, and you're already addicted. You think you can live the rest of your life knowing you'll never feel this ecstasy again? To live the rest of your life in black and white, prim and proper and bland?' As he spoke, his forked tongue snaked between his fangs, mocking her.

He ignored the furious flush of her cheeks and continued: 'You can't hide your desperation from me. You reek of it, it's fucking nauseating. What got you all hot and bothered? Did the good priest compliment your cardigan? Did his knuckles brush yours when farewelling at the door?'

(He did, actually.)

'Stop talking,' Moira commanded. 'You are here to serve me, not deride me.' Slowly she marched around the summoning circle, and he spun lazily, eyes following hers.

'Fucking get over here, then, and let me serve you. What are you waiting for?'

'Watch your language.'

He laughed again, a gravelly thunder that warmed her from her core to her sternum. 'Oh, that's where you draw the line? You summoned a creature of Hell to lick your cunt in the house of God and you're fussing over the word fuck?'

She tilted her chin defiantly but remained silent.

'Don't get shy on me now, Miss Moira. You're not some blushing virgin anymore. I made sure of that; do you remember? Now step over the line and sit on my face.'

'Not until you kneel.'

'Yes ma'am.'

He did so, and she stepped into the circle.

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Every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall confess.

Romans 14:11

Even when kneeling, he was tall, his eyes in line with her breasts (hidden beneath button-up blouse and cardigan as they were).

'Sit back on your heels,' Moira said. He did, and she raised one leg to rest her foot on his bare thigh. She lifted her skirt, and his hands skated along her bare thighs.

'Knee high socks this time?' he said, with the hint of a pleased grin.

'Get on with it,' she replied.

The elastic of her underwear snapped with the nip of his fangs, and she was bared to him completely. One of her hands fisted her skirt, bunching the fabric around her hips, exposing herself to the demon's mouth. Her other hand clasped one of his horns for balance, steadying herself.

The demon, having done away with Moira's underwear, gently grazed his fangs along her inner thigh. His breath was scorching hot on the sensitive skin, lighting every nerve ending on fire, and she canted her hips nearer to him. She didn't want him to tease; she wanted his tongue on her, in her.

'Come on,' she whispered harshly. Hands on his horns, she urged him closer.

He tutted. 'The impatience of you.' His voice was deep and smoky, and Moira made a keening noise at the back of her throat, begging without words.

He relented. Suddenly his mouth was on her, his tongue lapping lines of burning wet heat through her slick folds. She gyrated her hips against his mouth, his ceaseless licks, and revelled in the pure pleasure of his tongue.

He dug his claws into the flesh of her thighs and buttocks. He groaned into her, like he couldn't taste enough of her, like he couldn't live without his tongue buried in every crevice of her, and it was that feverish ardour that tipped her over the edge, falling into her first orgasm of the night.

She shook with pleasure above him, but he did not stop. Instead, he took her weight in his arms and leant back until he lay flat upon the floorboards, Moira perched upon his face, knees either side of his face.

Gently, he tapped her thigh. Taptaptap. She pulled off him, kneeling above him. His mouth, his beard, sticky and gooey with her juices, glinted obscenely in the red light of the summoning circle.

'Your whole weight,' he said, 'sit on me.'

Moira didn't need to be told twice. She settled into his open mouth, his hot tongue lapping and licking like a man possessed. His nose pressed a pleasant pressure into her clit--not just pleasant but electric, sending sparks up her spine, making her rock into him, tensing her thighs on either side of his head. She clawed her fingers down his scalp as the tension reached crescendo, building and building until it released, and Moira rode out her orgasm. She let go in gasps and moans, uninhibited and obscene, the frustration of the past few days melting all over her demon's face.

A sudden wave of exhaustion overcame her, and she slumped off him. Her lips were bit-swollen, her cheeks stained red, and a thin sheen of sweat coated her skin. Her dark hair clung to the back of her neck, sticky with perspiration.

Her demon looked quite satisfied with himself. He licked his lips.

But before Moira could catch her breath, the demon rolled on top of her and kissed her with a scorching sweetness. He tugged her bottom lip between his teeth, sucking gently. She tasted her own salty tang on his forked tongue, the mess on his beard, and they moved together. His hands groped her, caressed her waist, her hips beneath her skirt. She writhed against him.

He murmured into her gasping mouth, 'You want another, don't you? Insatiable little whore, won't rest until you're overfull.'

'Undress me.'

'As you wish.'

He unbuttoned her blouse, peppering kisses along each new strip of exposed skin. He hummed in appreciation as his hands worshiped her breasts. He was so beautiful like this. Reverent. A beast, tamed. She needed this. She deserved this.

'Come on, demon. No more teasing. Do what you were called for.'

'No more teasing?' He pulled back. 'Where's the fun in that?'

There was a heavy humidity in the air that clung to her. A bead of sweat rolled down her neck, and her demon licked it up, tongue leaving a burning trail in its wake. He nibbled at her earlobe, and she groaned in pleasure, shivering despite the heat.

She yanked off her skirt--now naked but for her knee-high stockings and Mary-Jane heels.

The demon trailed sinful open-mouthed kisses down her collarbone. He took her nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the areola, taking his time, appreciating every inch of her, and she arched into him.

He was perfect, he was incredible. She revelled in the feeling, the sizzling desire. She tilted her head back, stretched her arms above her head, and basked in the heat of him, luxuriating in the pleasure he brought her again and again and again. His hands caressed, kneaded, groped, bringing her ever so close to the brink.

He perched between her thighs, his eyes glowing. There was a mischievousness to them that sent a thrill rushing through Moira. Excitement tinged with dread. He was dangerous, she knew, but wasn't that the fun of it?

She giggled, lust-drunk, and the demon dove between her shaking, quivering legs once more. Fucking her with his tongue, making her writhe and moan obscenely.

His lips sucked a vacuum around her pussy as his tongue snaked inside her. It made the most disgusting, vulgar sounds, slurping and sloshing as his tongue curled against her walls and fucked her. She shook, squirming beneath him, and he brought her to the brink once more, fingers raking over his scalp, the heels of her Mary-Janes digging into the floorboards, scraping over the sigils of the summoning circle.

A flake of paint peeled away.

The glow from the sigils disintegrated. The heat was extinguished. An icy slug slid down her spine as a heavy pit of fear settled in her stomach. In the darkness, two glowing golden eyes.

The leash she kept on her pet had snapped.

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You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord's table and the table of demons.

1 Corinthians 10:21

The demon's laugh filled the darkness, an earthquake of a bellow that shook the very foundations of the church. The stained-glass windows shattered and sent multicoloured shards flying through the church.

Moira was weightless. His arms around her waist, he launched her into the ceiling and slammed her against the rafters, thumping the breath from her, pinning her there. Panic clawed at her throat, she couldn't breathe--or were those his claws clamping around her neck?

Her fear was wild, bubbling out of her mouth in frantic wheezing prayers. 'Please, God, please save me, please Lord don't let me die.'

The demon laughed. 'You think God can hear you now?'

He pinned her wrists to either side of her, stretching her arms wide like some grotesque mockery of the crucifixion. Her breath came fast and heavy as he tied her ankles together with his tail. She squirmed but could barely move against the restraint. He wedged one of his knees between her legs, opening her to him, and she whined a pathetic, animal keening of pure fear.

'Ohhh, I've been waiting for this,' he taunted. 'I've been waiting since you first called upon me. Such a careless little whore who couldn't see two feet in front of your own lust. I knew it was only a matter of time.'

His voice was low and sensual, his breath scorching hot in her ear. A fat tear rolled down her cheek.

'You know what I'm going to do to you, dear Moira?'

Whimpering, she shook her head. More tears dribbled down her face, rolling over her chin and down her neck. He licked the wet line of her tear-tracks, a searing, slimy stripe from clavicle to jaw line.

'Mmmm... I think you do,' he murmured, a cello-low growl. 'I think you know exactly what I'm going to do to you. How I'm going to ruin you, how I'm going to tear you in half.' Her legs clamped either side of his thigh, and he chuckled. 'In fact, I think you want it.'

Moira, hysterical, shook her head violently. 'No, no, no, no, no,' she begged, her breath hiccupping out of her.

Yet she couldn't deny the heat between her legs. The wet, slick need rubbing on the demon's thigh--how she gyrated on him, even as she pleaded.

'No?' he said. He slid his leg further between hers, and the gooey-wetness of her need left an achingly shameful trail of slime on the demon's upper thigh. She could feel his cock, thick and heavy, jutting against her hip bone. With the size of it, he really would tear her in two. She blanched and trembled.

'Answer me,' the demon demanded.

'No,' Moira choked out. 'Please, please let me go.'

He released one of her wrists, letting her dangle by her left.

'Want me to let you go, huh? Should I drop you?'

It's dark; too dark to see a thing. She didn't know how high off the ground she was, but if he dropped her now, she'd be severely injured for sure. But she needed to get out of here-perhaps she could still crawl with two broken legs--maybe crawl to the rectory, beg for Paul's help--

Before she could properly form her plan, the demon let go.

She landed with a sickening crunch, and a metallic sword of pain shot up from her left ankle up through her shin.

The candles lit again, and she could see the double doors--open, rain sleeting beyond them--so impossibly far away, but she was desperate, driven by pure adrenaline, and she limped, hobbling towards the doors. She gritted her teeth and fought through the pain--she needed to get out of here, now.

But there he was. She was halfway down the aisle, and he appeared in front of the doors, which slammed shut with a thunderous bang. Lazily, he sauntered towards her, and with each step, a row of pews shattered, splintering into shards.

She stumbled backwards. Her breath came in sharp pants. He wore nothing but a feline grin.

There was no exit. She could do nothing but accept her fate. She sank to her knees in despair. She deserved this.

'That's right,' he said, his voice paradoxically warm and reassuring, 'This is exactly what you deserve.'

She kneeled on the floor, shoulders slumped, hopeless. He took her by the hair and forced her to look up at him. He yanked her forward, impaling her open mouth on his cock.