Secret Sins Ch 09

Tiger

After fumbling around on the nightstand to turn off the most annoying alarm buzzer in human history, it took my guts about ten seconds before they started to cramp with the realization of how I'd spent the previous afternoon.

Yes, it had happened again.

Again!

I remembered coming home and seeing that dildo on the coffee table in the midst of the group, remembered realizing right away how things could go, and my intentions to prevent that. Yet, I somehow ended up encouraging and then taking part in a lesbian orgy that involved a mother and her daughter having sex with one another! On top of that, it happened during office hours in the Christian Community Mission that I was in charge of! How?! How did these things keep happening to me?!

At first, my mind went to blame Donna, the one who'd instigated 'lesbiana', (it's a place) as well as the shameful scene in the kitchen where Haley had sucked her own brother's cock. I jumped all over this explanation, her and whatever mind warping way she had of making people do things but, in the light of my own guilt, I suddenly saw how stupid that really sounded. It was only a ploy that my fear of losing my career and salvation wanted to cling to, something that would vindicate me in Christ's eyes. But the truth of the matter was that I was just as responsible as she was, more so in fact, because I was a spiritual authority. I ought to have known better, ought to have been stronger, ought to have had the light of Christ within me that made real children of God immune to such filthy and hedonistic desires.

And besides, I was acting shamefully before I ever met Donna, what with my awful pornography addiction, my lingerie fetish and the way I even flirted with Major Hurdle the first day I met him, not to mention what all I did at the Funraiser. Donna had nothing to do with that, did she? No, Donna was only a bisexual slut, and I... I was a bisexual slut as well. While it's true that associating with people who indulge in one's preferred transgression is not recommended, we are each responsible for our own actions, and to blame them on others is nothing but weak and cowardly. So, I was a weak and cowardly bisexual slut.

I hit the floor weeping, naked and prostrating myself before God. I begged His forgiveness, plead for His guidance and, above all, deliverance from my carnality. I wasn't even sure how long I stayed there, sobbing and praying, if that's what one could call the pathetic grovelling I was engaged in but, finally, I stopped.

Still sobbing, I got to my feet, making my way out to the kitchenette where I mixed a strong screwdriver.

Very strong. I gagged after forcing half of it down my throat in one drink, barely avoiding the creation of a puddle of vomit on the floor before I was able to take it back to my bedroom.

With tears still flowing, I didn't have the heart, or the nerve to put on a uniform, settling instead for a pair of the tight blue jeans that I'd bought earlier that week with Donna and a white Salvation Army polo top that was a little too small for me. Without a bra, or even panties, I flumped back down on my bed, wondering how in hell I was supposed to work that day, sniffling and staring at my bare feet as though I'd disappointed them as well.

Fighting a mild gag reflex, I took another drink, quietly sobbing and without a single idea of what to even do with myself. I just felt so worthless and lost, and I'd never felt that way before, had no idea of how to deal with that other than to drink it away.

I was close to finishing the glass when I heard the front door open, then shut again. Listening to Donna's heels crossing the living room's hardwood floor, I continued to just sit there. A few minutes later, after having climbed the stairs, she stood in the doorway with two cups of

Tim Horton's

coffee on a tray and a short, red, cleavage exposing summer dress that nobody in the ranks would approve of.

"There you are. I got some coffee... Oh boy."

I couldn't even look at her, much less understand how she could be so bright and chipper after making a total slut of herself.

"Well," she sighed, "I guess I should have expected this."

"Shut up," I tonelessly suggested as tears flowed down my cheeks.

Instead of taking offense, she only came closer, put the coffees on my nightstand and plopped down on the bed to my left, putting her arms around my shoulders and just holding me. I was glad she didn't take offense. I didn't want to hurt or offend her, I just wasn't in the mood for her often flippant form of perky caring just then.

After about five minutes, she gestured to the glass I was holding and asked, "How much of that have you had?"

"(Sniff) Not enough," I replied before downing the rest of it and putting the empty glass beside the coffees. "Know where I was for the last little while?"

"Where?"

I gestured to the floor in front of us.

" ... On the floor?"

I nodded.

" ... Um... did you fall?"

"No, Donna. I was lying there. Prostrate before God, begging His forgiveness, begging His help. I wanted- I

needed

Him to talk to me. I needed...

something.

Something

from Him."

"Okay... and how'd that work out for you?"

Compressing my lips in irritation, I replied, "Nothing! He had nothing to say to me!"

"Has he ever spoken to you before?"

"No!"

"So, why would you expect him to now?"

"Because I

need

Him!"

"Sweetie pie, God doesn't talk to people," she gently explained.

"Yes He does!" I refuted, wiping tears that were immediately replaced by more. "He did in the Bible, and I've known people who He's spoken to! They have conversations with Him, but not me! No, I'm just an ordained fucking

Minister

, so why in hell would He ever wanna talk to

me?!"

"We'll get back to the people God talks to," she decided. "Right now, let's just ask ourselves why He mightn't want to talk to you?"

"Because I'm a

slut!

That's

why

, Donna! And God has no use for some filthy slut who runs around pretending to be some kind of spiritual leader!"

"Well, yes, you're a slut now, but you weren't always."

I could have punched her right in the face just then, but she only went on, not having meant any more offense than I had when I'd told her to shut up.

"So, why do you think it is that He didn't talk to you before you were a slut?"

"Because I was

always

a slut! You oughta know this, you know every other fucking thing about Christianity! He knew us from before we were ever born, from before Adam and Eve were born, and he knew damned well that I was a slut before I ever made myself one! My stupid porn addiction and all that lingerie is only evidence of that!"

"So, now you don't believe you're saved," she assumed, "don't believe you ever were saved."

"Obviously not! (Sniff!)"

"Because God's never spoken to you. How about when you were a child? Before you were even old enough to understand what a slut is? Were you saved then?"

"All children are saved," I said. "Up until the time when they're responsible for their own transgressions."

"Okay. So, I guess your parents would have done well to smother you in your crib while you had your salvation, huh?"

"What?!"

With a shrug, she explained, "If you really believe in the state of spiritual salvation as you say it is, then this would have been the best thing for you. Also being Salvationists, I suppose your parents, if they knew what a slut you've turned out to be, would wish they had."

Incredulous at this twisted line of reasoning, I didn't know whether I should get up and leave, or tell her to, but she continued before I could make up my mind in any case.

"I'm just trying to make you see the absurdity of what you're saying. Sweetie pie, I told you: God doesn't talk to anyone. Those who claim that He talks to them are either lying, or deluded."

"Why would a Christian ever lie about that?" I challenged. "Talk about bearing false witness, why in hell would anybody who loves Christ and values his or her salvation ever lie about that?"

"Are you kidding? That kind of direct communication, along with speaking in tongues, are considered to be among the most visceral kinds of salvational proof, and you ought to well know that. Think of how some people feel when it doesn't happen to them? Meanwhile, every time they go to church, people are popping up in the crowd with,

"Mu-kashetti arum du-du, shaundie raundie, round and round with the bowtie!"

I was a little shocked. I'd personally heard people speaking in tongues and, other than the final, sarcastic portion of her example, she sounded precisely like them.

"And, blammo!" she continued to explain, "everybody in the church suddenly has praising respect for this individual, who is clearly beloved of God, and so saved that nobody will ever doubt it. Much better than sitting there in the congregation with your family, wondering if they too are suspecting that you might not really be saved, that God might not know you. It's bad enough to have those frightful suspicions of yourself, but for others in your church community to have them? Oh my, no. Can't have that. It's the same for people who claim that God speaks to them. Even worse actually, because it's all too easy to delude yourself into thinking that those flashing thoughts you have, those sudden ideas and inspirations that pop into your mind, are really God speaking. It's so easy to believe it when you really want to, when you really need to. And the more you believe it, the longer you sit there,

talking to God,

the better and more effective the delusion becomes. I mean, just stop and ask yourself: When you hear someone saying something like, "I was sitting in my backyard, all alone and talking to God yesterday, and He told me..." Doesn't that sound completely fucked up?"

It did, but I was loathe to admit it.

"Well, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I quietly admitted with my eyes on the spot where I lay prostrated just earlier.

"Of course it does," she assured, rubbing my back and adding, "But don't feel bad, sweetie pie. At least you didn't delude yourself. And as for God talking to people in the Bible, well... If Moses's flock had the time to lose their faith, melt down all their gold, build a calf out of it and then party for a little while, who do you think was really carving out those tablets up on Mount Sinai? Nicely out of sight of the masses, who would then have no reason to disbelieve his claim that God had carved them. Even today, the masses tend to be ignorant cows, and they'll believe whatever everyone else does out of a simple fear of being the odd man out. Add the fear of eternal damnation, and they'd have believed Moses if he'd told them that he was up there playing patty cake with God all that time. Take any biblical instance of God supposedly talking to someone, look at it objectively, and you'll soon find good reason for why the person who made the claim might have good reason for others to believe him, but God, who or whatever that may be, doesn't speak to anyone. If He did, the world wouldn't be as fucked up as it is."

It made sense, but I didn't want to believe it. The first part of what she said, the part concerning God speaking to modern day man through the gift of tongues was a lot more believable, but was I only believing that in order to make myself feel better, to reassure myself of the validity of my own personal salvation? Even while resisting her claims of God's non-intervention during Biblical days in order to protect my faith? And what of her motivations here? Was she trying to shore up my faith, or break it down? It was hard to tell by the way she went from reassuring me where God's silence was concerned, to poo-pooing divine Biblical intervention. Was she merely trying to force what she'd called 'critical thought'? In the hotel hot tub, she did say that I needed to figure things out for myself.

In any event, I did feel moderately better. I wasn't sure if it was the conversation or the screwdriver, but I wasn't crying anymore and I did know that I wanted another screwdriver.

"Just

one

more of those," she told me in the kitchenette as though she were my mother. "Remember, alcohol is a depressant, and you know what happens when you come down from having drank too much. By the way, you look very nice without a bra. If hypocritical."

"Too depressed for a bra," I toned, shutting the fridge door without a smile for her joke.

"I'm not complaining. Your nipples look sensational. And those nice, tight jeans... Mmmm, I'm gonna be sucking that pussy before I leave today, girlie."

This did bring a grudging smile to my lips as I raised my glass. She smiled back, obviously happy to have cheered me, if only a little.

"So, what are we doing today?" she asked.

"Dunno."

"I take it you're not going on walkabout?"

I shook my head.

"Well, we could paint your office, or do some more work in the back yard."

I shrugged, not in the mood to commit myself to much of anything just then.

"Or..." she hinted with a teasing grin.

"Or what?" I asked, cautious but curious.

"We

could

go shopping..."

"We're on the clock, and already late," I pointed out.

"So what?"

"So, it's my job. And yours."

"Yeah, but you're the boss so, if you say we can go, it's okay."

"No, it's not," I said, but with a slight grin. "I answer to Major Jerkoff, and if he should stop by while we're gone..."

"We'll buy something for the Mission while we're out. Then it's work."

I hesitated.

"You know it'll make you feel better," she prodded, "and you need some shorts and summer tops. Way too hot out for working in jeans, and those polo tops are barely suitable for wiping up your puke."

"Hey!"

"You know I'm right, and we can work around here later this afternoon when you're feeling better about yourself. Go brush your teeth, do something with your hair and makeup, and I'll get breakfast ready for you."

We went to

Southland Mall

and hit every clothing shop there. Having finished my second drink, I never even thought to put on panties, or a bra, so I got a lot of looks that I didn't figure out right away. Of course, Donna only giggled about it, having purposefully said nothing before we left.

I didn't buy one, rather a scoop necked tank-top of light blue cotton, thick enough so that the shadows of my areolas couldn't be seen through it, but not so thick that my points couldn't make themselves known. It wasn't long enough to tuck in, and the cleavage it showed off was a little more than what the dress Donna wore showed. Wearing it around the mall, I found I liked how my boobs felt, swinging free the way they were, and it didn't bother me too much that men were ogling my chest. As for my Salvation Army polo top, I left that in the changing room. Donna was right about it.

But the shorts she picked out and had me try on were much more daring.

"But, they're too tight, and too low cut," I fretted, modeling the white, cotton short shorts with the two inch slits up the sides in the changing room alcove. Looking over my shoulder at the image presented in the full length mirror, I added, "And the bottom of my tushie hangs out. I can't wear these."

"They're not that bad," Donna refuted, the cute sales girl looking on with a positive expression as my sexy assistant tugged the backs of them down a bit, making no difference whatsoever while adding, "Anyway, this city is pretty open minded in that way. Look at how I dress."

"What do

you

think?" I doubtfully asked the sales girl.

"I think they look super on you," she enthused. "I have a pair like them and I wear them out all the time."

Suddenly thinking of the hotel manager in Moose Jaw, I regarded the little brunette in glasses with some suspicion while Donna tugged down in front before making another try in back.

"I don't know," I said. "I think I'd like another opinion."

"Fine, I'll get one," Donna told me.

She left the alcove before I could think of a reasonable excuse to have the salesgirl go get someone else, but it did give me the opportunity to question her.

"Um... while I was changing, did my friend... say anything to you?"

She only looked at me, her expression remaining the same, and I could only assume that she didn't quite understand what I was getting at. I would have to clarify.

"I mean, did she, uh... tell you anything about cooperating with her?"

"I think they look super on you," she told me, as though for the first time, her expression still the same.

" ... Uh, did you hear my question?" I asked. "Did you understand me?"

"I have a pair just like them, and I wear them out all the time. Men

love

them on me."

Suddenly, it was like talking to one of the manikins, and I gave her a blank stare because that was all I had to give her. Presently though, Donna returned with another salesperson, this one more matronly, probably somewhere in her fifties, though still attractive.

"Hello," she greeted with a warm, if professional smile.

"Hi," I greeted in return, glancing at the positive salesgirl for a brief second before looking back to her elder.

"So, you're not sure about the shorts," she correctly assumed.

"Yes. I mean no, I'm not sure... aren't they a little too short?"

"They're supposed to be," she countered.

She kind of had me there.

"And," Donna said, "they make your pussy look so yummy without panties."

I was too taken aback to reply to this, but the senior saleswoman wasn't disturbed, at least not by the sexual spirit of Donna's comment as she asked with a disapproving frown, "Oh, you're not wearing panties?"

I only shook my head, lips slightly parted as I tried to mentally keep up.

"Well, I'm afraid you've just bought them. I'm sorry, but that's store policy."

I actually wore them out of the store. Donna wanted me to and it seemed that I was too distracted by what had happened with the salesgirl to resist. We walked around the mall with me in that slutty outfit, but my distraction over the events in the clothing retailer and a shameful enjoyment of the attention I was getting helped to distract me from my almost indecent public appearance. Maybe it was only the Vodka but, by the time we left

Canadian Tire

with a new light fixture for the front room's ceiling in order to vocationally justify our outing, I'd agreed with Donna in that those shorts were okay to wear in public, if only just barely okay.

As for the odd behaviour of the salesgirl, I still wasn't sure what to think, and was once again revisiting the possibility that Donna Liski might somehow have the ability to bewitch people's minds. But, were that the case, why dance around certain issues with me? For example, if she really wanted to dissuade me of my faith, why wouldn't she simply use this fabulous, suspected power of persuasion to make me believe or disbelieve in whatever way she wanted? The same went for the short shorts. All she would have had to do was just mess with my mind and make me think the way she wanted me to. Right?

By the time we got home, though, I was mostly over it. The whole idea of Donna controlling people's minds was once again silly and paranoid. As far as the Salesgirl went, well... some people are strange, aren't they?

Another thing Donna was right about was how much more comfortable it was to work in the southern Saskatchewan heat with shorts and a tank top, but there was one thing that really worried me about that. We'd only just gotten to work, trimming some of the lower branches of the trees in the backyard before I turned around and presented Donna with that worry.

"But, what if someone drops in?"

"Huh?" she asked, wiping the perspiration that had already soaked her brow.