Unholy Pilgrim

I recognized her outfit sure as if it were a uniform. The white blouse, calf-length skirt, and black flats were standard enough at the New Essentialist Church of Christ that even an ordained infidel like myself could recognize them from a distance. Her blonde hair was in the usual low, perfectly dressed ponytail, not too tight or too loose that either way might temp the carnal impulses of the average man. It was unusual for them to send a woman door-to-door by herself, but not unheard of. I had seen their proselytizers distribute fliers downtown, sometimes with a booth, and sometimes I'd see them on foot or bicycle around the suburbs. I'd heard their spiel a few times before, as well as that of the Mormons, the Evangelicals, the Muslims, the Buddhists, and others from Kathmandu to Cincinnati (yes, I used to travel quite a lot). None of them managed to convert or revert me, and they didn't even do much of a job "showing me part of the elephant" as my tolerant-to-a-fault religion professor insisted back in college. I found religious types interesting, sometimes fascinating, but had felt no compulsion to step into a church for nearly thirty years.

This girl thought she could convince me. The truth is, I wouldn't have gone even to get to her. Whatever you might think of me, I'm not a trickster or a liar, and I think that, most of the time, "manipulative" is what we call people who are right when we wish they weren't. I could tell this girl had been manipulated plenty already, from the first words from her mouth:

"Hello, I'm from the New Essentialist Church of Christ and I want to invite you to our weekly prayer meeting. We offer a community built around the word of the Lord and the love of-"

"Thank you," I said, accepting the yellow pamphlet. The paper was slick, and the print was in color. Her church had a marketing budget.

"Have you been saved?" she asked, per the script.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"We don't usually... but.. "

"It's okay if you don't want to share."

"My name is Joan," she seemed to think I was going to shut the door if she didnt' tell me.

"How long have you been with the church?"

"Since I was born," she tried to correct herself: "I was born into the faith."

"Is that how faith works?"

"I'm sorry?"

I wanted to see how educated her church allowed the women to be, "Have you heard of the Anabaptists?"

"I'm sorry, I don't.. "

"They believed something like baptism could only be real if done with full awareness and knowledge of its implications. The Catholic Church and the Protestants both opposed them. Some were tortured."

"I don't... "

"So, I guess I'm curious at what point you chose the church. You seem to be an active member?"

"Every member does outreach work at some point but that's not... I'm fully professed and baptized. What about you? Have you been saved and have you accepted the word of the Lord?"

"I'm afraid you're talking to an apostate, a lapsed Catholic."

"The Catholics were never truly Christian, though, their church hid the true revelations from them. I'd be happy to tell you about the true gospel and the congregation... if... Mr.?"

"You can call me Brent. I'm not 'Mr.' anything, I'm not a teacher. Would you like to come in and talk?"

"I'm not supposed to cross the threshold."

"Even in the service of the Lord? To possibly save the soul of an infidel? Do you fear that God might punish you for it or that he's not watching over you as you spread his word?"

With those words Joan's gaze caught mine with an intensity and a clarity she didn't seem capable of before. Her big, blue eyes still had a bit of the proselytizer, the preacher, the unyielding Sunday school teacher, but not I could see a glint of vulnerability shining through. She looked away, across the street, up the street, down the street, nervous of being seen. Then she smiled at me and I welcomed her inside.

My living room might look like her idea of villain's lair from one of the church-produced adventure movies she watched as a kid. It was mostly books, a few animal skulls, dark wood furniture, and a diamond-tufted leather couch. I'm a writer, btw. I use a computer most of the time but that day I had my old Remington typewriter out on my work desk by the window.

"Would you like something to drink?" I offered.

"No thank you."

"Water from the tap? 'nothing safer than that."

"Oh, yes, thank you," she relented.

"So, tell me about your spiritual journey," I started.

"Sir.. Mr.-"

"Brent."

"Brent, I'm here to talk about your soul, I'm here to see that you are saved."

"Joan, I left the church. It wasn't yours but it made every beautiful promise for this life and the next and that couldn't keep me. So tell me what a skeptical jackass like me needs to know about your church from your perspective."

"The Reverend Welker could tell you much better than I could-"

"But I don't want to know about the reverend, I want to know about you. Someone sent you, entrusted you to talk to me today and that's what I think can help me. Do you still believe you're being watched over?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe you're safe? Honestly?"

"I don't know."

"You're brave enough to come into a stranger's home for your beliefs. Maybe you want to save me. Maybe your compassion is stronger than your fear. There's something worth knowing."

Joan tried to hide a smile behind her hand.

"Maybe... " she paused and struggled to find a way to start, "Could you tell me why you left?"

"I stopped believing. That sounds simple, I know, but belief works like that. We don't choose it, I don't think we can. I believe things that compel me, that persuade me. I believe you're here, I believe the sun is hot, I believe the Earth is round. I was told I had to have faith, over and over again. Could you, Joan, could you choose to have faith and to believe in Catholicism or Odinism or Ishtar?

"Who's Ishtar?"

"Joan, there's a certain sensation that comes with realizing you're alone in the world. The unanswered prayers start to make more sense, then there's the fear, the sense of betrayal, that all those wrongs won't be righted in the afterlife, that the unfair, unfeeling, living world is all there is. Do you feel that?"

"I think... I don't know what... "

"Yeah, I don't always know what to make of it either."

"Do you not find any solace in faith?"

"Maybe faith just never found me. But if there's one thing I've learned it's that faith is the only thing that sets your religion apart from any others. Hundreds of religions, thousands of gods, over thousands of years, but you were born into that one, founded in 1826, reformed in 1972. How much of the world do they want you to see?"

Joan's eyes drooped, her lip seemed to shake as she tried to speak: "I'm not supposed to..."

"I know. I know your church. I know what you're not supposed to do. But you want to, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're expected to save yourself for marriage, marry within the church, dress modestly. Would you like some wine? I have an unopened bottle."

"You know I'm not supposed to drink while I'm working."

"Of course. But do you want to?"

"I'm not supposed to drink."

"But do you want to?"

"I'm not old enough."

Now this did surprise me a bit, "That's fair," I said. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Well. No wine for you. But do you believe Jesus drank wine at the Last Supper and that he turned water into wine?"

"That was grape juice."

"And all those other religions got it wrong?"

"Alcohol is a blight," she remembered another script, "It makes men a mob when they are together and when they're alone it makes them a disgrace."

"Well, you're right about that."

"It turns gentlemen into brutes and ladies into.."

"Into....?"

"It's not a kind word."

"It compels you though, I can see it. As much as it compels anyone, the idea of a whore, a lady of loose morals, living a life of selfish, carnal pleasure for herself and those she associates with. The freedom to explore one's self, the power over others. Have you ever felt that kind of power, Joan?"

"I do not seek power but to put forth the glory of the Lord," she said, her voice was becoming fragile again, markedly less enthusiastic of the script she recited. She looked disturbed but she wasn't moving. She sat between me and the door. She could have left at any time but still she sat there on my leather couch.

"Have you ever stepped inside a stranger's home like this?" I asked.

"No."

"Have you ever been somewhere that your parents didn't know? You're an adult, you can tell me," of course I knew the church had some pretty warped dogma about what age a girl becomes a woman, and that age is usually far too old or far too young.

"I've been to the mall a few times... when I was doing mission work. I wasn't supposed to go but my partner couldn't make it that day."

"What did you do there?"

"I was going to try some new food but I was too nervous to eat anything," Joan smiled.

"What else?"

"I looked at the mannequins in the store windows."

"What did you think of them?"

"I thought the clothes were pretty, there were outfits I couldn't ever wear but I knew I'd look...pretty in them."

"Did you buy anything?"

"No. I went inside but was too scared to be seen buying anything."

"And what did you do when you got home that day?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just tell me."

"I guess, I looked in the mirror and wondered what I would look like if I could dress like those mannequins."

"What do you think would happen if you could?" I sat closer to her.

"People would see me differently. I'd get looks, or I'd stop getting looks. Maybe I wouldn't stand out at all."

I imagined her trying on pantyhose and a leather miniskirt, running her hands over her legs and feeling the slippery smooth nylon stretched over her skin for the first time.

"Have you ever been kissed?"

"Brent I don't think we should-"

"Have you ever wanted to be kissed?"

"I've wanted to be kissed, Brent, I've wanted it, I've wanted it. I've wanted to be touched and to feel like I can but I don't deserve that," tears were forming in her big, blue eyes, "I don't deserve that, I haven't earned that!"

"How do you know anything at all about it if you've never experienced it?"

"Galatians 5:19: The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery, idolatry and witchcraft-"

"Written by old men who had no knowledge of your own desires or your virtues, Joan."

"If the Bible isn't true then... "

"You told me yourself, the Catholics concealed the true revelations. You doubt the scriptures, you told me yourself."

Her lips touched mine. She may have kissed a boy once or twice but she was not practiced. But she was hungry. I held her as she leaned into me, pressing her mouth against mine but afraid to open it.

She fell against the back of the couch, her eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare and hair was coming loose from her ponytail. "Oh my... Oh My.. OH MY... " she panted. She covered her face with her hands.

"Hey, Joan. Joan," I repeated, "It's alright Joan. You didn't do anything wrong." I gently grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. She wasn't crying but her pale face was marked with that familiar uncertain clash of desire and fear. She focused and looked at me, with the addled eyes of a girl awaiting punishment. I saw no sign of blame in her gaze except for herself. "How did that kiss feel?" I asked. Joan's expression changed and she kissed me again. She held my head in her dainty hands and opened her mouth. Hers was the cleanest, smoothest mouth I had ever tasted. In her lips and her tongue I could feel the experience of a girl and the desires of a woman. I let her push me back. She wasn't in control of me or herself but I let her kiss me. She wrapped her arms around me. I felt her chest against mine. I must have felt warm to her. When I started having trouble breathing I pulled her off. Her makeup would have been smeared had she been allowed to wear any.

My fingers moved to the first button on her blouse. Her face was restless and flustered but her body did nothing to resist. She was closer to the door but she didn't leave. She stood up straighter for me, even as she looked terrified of what might be unleashed from her blouse. A second button undone and I saw the white satin and thin lace trim of her bra. Another button and the nearly-as-white skin of her midriff which had probably never seen direct sunlight. The final button and her blouse was open. I ran my hand from her neck, down the middle of her chest to her waist. She reacted like she had never been touched before. Even the brush of my fingertips tickled her in some way. Once I kissed her chest, between her small breasts, she was ready to do anything for me.

I pulled at her skirt and she started to help take it off. Her panties were a little frillier than her bra. They were white and printed with light blue flowers and trimmed in the thinnest of blue lace. They were not standard church issue panties, if that were a thing. She may have bought something for herself at the mall afterall. I wanted to tell her she was pretty but she must have known. She must have liked being pretty, must have wanted to feel pretty so many times. I pulled her back onto the couch, onto my lap, holding her shoulders in my right arm and wrapping my left hand around her naked, smooth thigh. I gave her another kiss as I kneaded her butt. She made a high, muffled moan through our kiss but made no attempt to stop me or to get away. She wanted to be touched and groped in every way possible. She was acting submissive, for now, so I removed her bra myself. She smiled and made a half-hearted coy expression but made no attempt to cover herself. Her breasts were small, but couldn't have been more perfect if they were carved from marble by Antonio Corradini. Her skin was buttery and clear without a trace of tan lines. She was fair without being pale or sallow. But she was blushing, especially as I peeled off her panties. Now, laying across me in just her socks I could take her all in, in her natural state as creation intended. She looked somehow younger and older than when she was dressed. In full blossom of her maiden physique I saw a youthful spryness which her religious dress obscured. But I could also see her round hips, her healthy, well-groomed bush, and long, shapely legs. She was a woman, no doubt raised in preparation of being some subservient ideal of womanhood, probably made to help raise her many younger siblings. Ostensibly raised to be a mother but never a woman, sheltered, infantilized, and indoctrinated. She was probably likewise trained to refer to her father as "Father" at all times.

I removed my shirt. I don't know how I must have looked to Joan but her nervous excitement wasn't waning. I was going to be rough with her. But I knew if I could do it right I'd send her home happy and hoping for more. I kicked off my shoes. I was hard, and was sure to watch her expression as I took off my pants and she got a fist-hand look at a man's cock for the first time. She seemed to gasp and swallow nervously but tried to hide it even as we were making eye contact. I knelt by her and ran my hand up the inside of her leg. She fidgeted and squirmed, maybe from discomfort, maybe from impatience, maybe from a combination of both. I'd had more sexual partners than I'm proud of, but I had never been with someone so much younger than myself. The last time I had been with a teenager, I was a teenager myself. Of course, I had no idea what I was doing then. I didn't know what felt good for her or for me and by the time we started to realize that it was over.

I knew better now. I knew that no matter how many times she had gone horseback riding, her first time was going to be rough. I moved my hand further up. Her thighs hugged my hand but didn't hold it. My fingers found her lips. She was wet and had been for some time. I looked at her face. She looked like she was riding a roller coaster in slow motion. I was taking it slow for the time being. Making her warm and soft was easy, but there was only so much that could do. At some point you have to stop preparing and start fucking.

"Are you ready?"

"Uh huh," she nodded with a winced smile. I grabbed her ankles just above her white socks and spread her legs as wide as I could until she made a sound. Her eyes were closed now. She couldn't wait any longer.

Cries of pain quickly turned to pleasure as I thrust inside her, bottoming-out in one motion. Maybe I should have been gentler. My fingers dug into her hips and I started working her. The endorphins and hormones were taking over and she was making wet, breathy moans of unrestrained, frenzied joy. I turned her over. She stood on her hands and wobbly knees with her back bent over like she was waiting for a shot from a doctor. Like sculpting warm clay, I firmly massaged her into the proper position, back arched properly and her ass spread wide. I entered her again, rubbing her firm cheeks and she moaned and clutched a throw pillow. She may not have noticed at first as I began massaging her asshole with my thumb, but I felt it react. I wanted to stick my thumb completely inside but didn't have adequate lube on hand. I did give it a good lick as Joan was still shaking from her first orgasm. She fell limp and sweaty on the couch but I kept playing with her. I wasn't done yet.

I stood up and stretched, still erect, sweating, and slippery with Joan's juices. She was panting, her face down, post-orgasmic and not yet feeling as sore as she would later.

"Sit up," I ordered, pulling the band off her ponytail and gripping her by her hair. But she did as I told and sat-up. "Open your mouth."

Her eyelids fluttered, "You want to put it in my mouth?" she asked, surprised and confused but not apparently disgusted or appalled.

"Open your mouth," I repeated and again, she did as told. I drove my cock into her mouth, causing an immediate gag and panicked whimper. I let her pull off of me but immediately forced it back in, holding her head with both hands. "That's right, you're doing great," I assured her. She hadn't resisted anything I'd done to her until then. I had to slap her hands away as she tried to free herself. It was just her reflexes. I knew she was fine and that I'd be able to fit my entire cock in her mouth. Her face was turning redder and her eyes watered. She gagged and spat around my cock as she struggled but eventually was able to take it all the way until I felt her throat contracting around it. I pulled-out and let her catch her breath. She was grateful. I even positioned her leaning over the arm of the couch in the most comfortable position for her to cough and retch and throw-up if she had to. Her body felt softer as I returned to work on her ass. It felt like we were both ready now. I spread her cheeks, gave her hole one more affectionate lick, then started working my cock inside. Joan mewled a bit at first, not apparently from pain or pleasure, more from surprise. As soon as the head was in I thrust in a few inches. That got a good whine out of her. I started working back and forth to soften her up. This wasn't the most comfortable position for her first time but it allowed her to breathe easier. Her thigh muscles were feeling like jelly and hopefully helped relieve some discomfort. But her asshole was even tighter than her cunt. That had to have been her first time. Luckily it was with someone who knew what he was doing.

"You're doing so good, Joan," I said, "How does that feel?"

"It hurts," she forced out.

"Ok, hold on, we're going to try something different, okay?"

"Okay," she was almost crying. I pulled out and watched her sore, pink hole slowly close, then I turned her onto her back. Holding her left legs open I slid my cock back in. She made a strained sound.