The greatest trick of the Devil, it has been said, was to convince the world He didn't exist.
What He didn't realize, nor would He have cared, was that He cleared the way for the rest of us.
Churches are my favorite hunting ground. There was a time, not that long ago, a few hundred years, when the power of believers' faith kept me out. But here we are, in the 21st century, and I'm free to enter where I please.
As always after what you'd call a "sleep," I was ravenous.
That last mount had been particularly satisfying. How often do you find an anorexic woman and turn her into a glutton before leaving her in a motel room too fat to move without help, covered in chocolate and semen, crying and helpless to stop the hunger that consumed her?
Yeah, my Audry had been fun but I had needed to rest.
But now I was back.
And I was famished.
As always after a "sleep," I guess I'll use that word. I could try "hibernation" or "period of dormancy," or something else, but "sleep" is close enough for you.
I do wander, don't I? I get that way when I wake, to continue my sleep metaphor.
But I was starved and church beckoned.
Let me put this in terms I hope make sense.
I floated at 30,000 feet or so with the world spread out below me. I could, well, let's call it "see" although my senses have nothing to do with the visible light spectrum. I could, let's call it "smell" the aroma of a church. I, well, "transported" is a good word, to the source of the "smell."
Ahhhh, there it was. Call it the "scent" of, well, call it "sin."
Your language is SO limited, this is the best I can do.
I slipped in through her nose and immediately spread through her nervous system.
I was part of her now and heard her silly prayers. Not that there aren't spirits in the world, but the hubris of humans imagining we care about them, or more ridiculous yet, can be summoned by them was something that always made me, well, call it "laugh."
Human women can be so funny. If I had lungs I would have laughed as I listened to her pathetic prayer.
"Father," she was intoning silently and her belief was manifest, "I have sinned in my flesh."
The taste of her sorrow was ambrosia to me.
"I can't stop myself, Father," she went on, "Please, help me."
So I helped her.
I felt my way along her neural pathways until I could stimulate the erectile tissue of her areolas and nipples making them so hard I could feel the ache and trace the sensations up her nerves.
Ahhhhh, THERE it was. I fed greedily on her shame and humiliation.
"Father, please," she whimpered, on her knees in a pew, her eyes tightly shut, her hands clasped before her, "I can't help myself. Please, Lord, send me help."
So I helped her.
I found the dense ganglia of nerves that is her clitoris and carefully identified each of the millions of nerve endings that offer a woman pleasure.
"Please, Father," she repeated in her mind, my senses "hearing" her clearly, "I am weak and need your help."
On the word "help" I closed the gaps in those nerve endings. Her orgasm was immediate and powerful and I fed on her pleasure, with her humiliation a delicious dessert as she gasped and the crotch of her slacks was suddenly soaked.
"FATHER!" she said aloud, the word echoing in her mind and throughout my being. I fired those neurons again, this time matching the effort in her nipples and areolas.
She came again and I drank her humiliation like ambrosia.
"No, please, God, no," she was whispering in her mind as her hand moved under the waistband of her slacks to where she was swollen and sensitive.
I whispered, directly into her mind, wanting her to think I was the voice of her God, "Go ahead, Daughter."
She stopped moving and I felt her sudden tension.
"Father?" she asked silently.
"Yes, Daughter," I whispered, right at the threshold of audibility in her mind, "You do well. You give me pleasure with your pleasure," which was perfectly true. Over the years, well, the millennia, I found believers responded to formal language.
"Father?" she asked again.
"Do you want me to leave you?" I asked, allowing just the barest hint of anger into my voice.
"No, Father, please no," she said and I sipped at the desperation in her thoughts, sweet nectar to my hungry being.
I went still, not speaking in her tongue or adjusting her nervous system, waiting to see what she would do.
I laughed, well, I felt a wave of delight, what I suppose is what a human would call laughter, when I felt her fingers touch where she was desperate for touching. I lapped at the sensation between her legs, a delicate appetizer, but I drank deeply at the humiliation as her body exploded into another orgasm, this one not given by my manipulation.
No longer starving, I allowed her to relax. I sampled her wonder as she tried to sort out what had happened, while I rummaged through her memories learning what my new puppet was like.
And I liked what I found. She was 40 in human years, married, with a daughter 19 away in college, a son 18 still living at home, and a husband of 22 years who had lost interest. She wondered if he was having an affair.
Her name popped up, Susan, not that I cared, and like a rapid series of pictures, little vignettes really, I learned all I needed to know about her. I saw how she had carefully avoided sex until she got married and then had found it to be a chore rather than the delight it was supposed to be. I saw how she hated being pregnant but loved being a mother.
I saw her befriend another at a "Mommy and Me" group, the ridiculous name making me roll my eyes if I had had eyes and then being taught by another mother, while children played together in another room, the pleasure her body could give. But for Susan, the pleasure was always wrapped in shame and guilt.
Most important, given my own needs, was the way she masturbated frequently, finding it a purely physical release, and then crying in her mortification.
