Amanda, Agnus Dei

I walked Amanda up the shallow stone steps of St. James’ Church at Spanish Place, under the shadows of its uncanny gargoyles and into the cool, dark interior. In my grip, her arm muscles were tense. The tendons of her neck stood out like wires. I loved her like this – I couldn’t help myself.

“You can do this, sweet.”

Amanda bobbed her head but said nothing. She didn’t have to. I knew she was scared.  Knew that the familiar reek of stale incense and floor polish, the stench of hypocrisy and Holy Ghost were permeating her skin, corroding her courage.

What a paradox it is: to despise how Amanda allowed this crap to eat away at her self-worth and yet be unbelievably turned on by how vulnerable it rendered her. Call it arrogance, hubris or just a greed for control, but I didn’t want to compete with the whole of the Catholic Church. If she was going to be vulnerable, I wanted to be the one who made her feel that way. Not a fucking institution.

When I caught her, like I have caught her often, on her knees with her hands clasped together, crying into the duvet, I thought, fuck this – this has got to stop.

She wasn’t crying for me. She was sobbing with guilt for what we do: the things she loves me to do to her, the things that turn her to jelly and make her come so hard.  She wasn’t weeping over the exquisite thing she became when I rendered her fuck meat. When I’ve punished her ass with my hand. When she raises her hips like a cat in heat and soaks my fingers with her desire.

So, if I was going to be in competition with that prick up there above the altar, I figured I had to take it to the source.

“Over there,” I said, gently directing her to a pew halfway down the nave, facing the chancel.

The old wood creaked as we sat, side-by-side, in the deserted, sepulchral cave. St. James was the darkest church I could find. It was usually deserted during the week and there were rumours that it would soon close due to its aging and dwindling congregation.  I entertained the fantasy of buying it and turning it into the kink club of my dreams.  Not very likely, but it was a kickass daydream.

There he was: pendant in all his uber-masochistic glory.  My dominance usurped by the biggest sub of all times. That’s the other reason I had chosen St. James. The central crucifixion was almost graphically obscene.  His crown of thorns was vicious; rivulets of blood striped his lurid, painted wood face.  The nails in his palms could never have held his body-weight in reality; they would have ripped right through his hands. But here they were, pinning him to a stylized tree.  The wounds in his side seeped dark fluid, and his heart was exposed and glowing.  His groin clothwrapped, sexless.

“Kneel.” I shoved one of the burgundy leather pads that dotted the knee rail with the toe of my shoe.

Amanda hesitated.

I turned, slipped my arm around her shoulders, and nestled my mouth against her ear.  “Kneel, or I’ll drag you up to the altar by your hair, bend you over it and fuck your ass – no lube.”

She tried to pull away from me. “Someone could come in. Someone could see,” she hissed.

“Look at me, Amanda. Do you think I care? Do you think I’m not perfectly willing to take whatever the consequences of that might be? At worst I’d be charged with lewd and indecent behaviour. Chances are, they’d just freak out quietly and ask us to leave.” I stared at her face. “I’m not the one who’s worried about my immortal soul, my sweet. And I don’t believe God gives a shit where I fuck your ass.”

“Sh-sh!” She glaced around frantically. Then, I guess it sank in. She read my face and knew I was telling her the absolute truth. I would do what I said. “Okay. Okay!”

Amanda edged off the pew and onto her knees. She was wearing a mid-length blue cotton dress with tiny, white fleur-de-lis on it. It snugged in at her waist, flared at her magnificent hips, and draped over her generous ass in a way that made it obvious she’d followed my instructions to leave the panties at home.

If there was ever a woman worthy to pose for a likeness of the Virgin Mary, it was Amanda. She was so scrumptiously female. Not feminine but female. Fleshy in all the right places. Haunches that begged to be grabbed, breasts that demanded mauling. Buttocks that took a slap and reverberated with the force of it.  The plumpest, juiciest cunt I’d ever buried my cock in. I’m not saying I could never love an anorexic woman, but it was a lot easier to love Amanda.

Behind her on the pew, I reached forward and stroked my knuckles down her spine. “Put your hands together and pray.”

“What… what should I pray for?”

The curve of her ass was warm through the fabric. She twitched and straightened her back, pressed her palms together and interlaced her fingers.

“I don’t care. It’s not going to matter in about five minutes.”

Beneath the skirt, her legs were bare. The backs of her thighs were buttery soft. I made a wedge of my hand and pushed my way between them into the heat and the pressure. Her legs were clenched together with such ferocity it would take effort to reach her crotch.

Instead of asking, because she knew exactly what I wanted, I caught a nice soft piece of inner thigh between two fingers and pinched her hard enough to elicit a gasp.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“You can. And you will.”

I pinched hard again, in exactly the same spot. It was going to leave an ugly bruise, but I like ugly bruises. It gives me a reason to kiss them better. She didn’t release the tension in her thighs, but she edged her knees apart. Just enough for me to get at what I wanted.

Soft and smooth and humid. The entrance to Amanda’s grave cave. Source of most of her misery and a good deal of her joy. She was too scared to be really wet, but Amanda had a well that never truly ran dry. I eased my fingertips between her ripe lips and into her smooth moist slit.

Leaning forward, until my face was buried in the abundance of her dark hair, I whispered. “I hope you’re praying.”

“N-noooo.” It was more a bleat than a word.

Little Lamb of God Amanda. Who turns me inside out with her brimming eyes and her flooding cunt. Who validates every nasty thing I do to her by orgasming louder than anyone I’d ever been with.

As I shifted the angle of my hand, pressing the edges of it into the taut and trembling tendons that attempted, with or without her intention, to keep me out. She fought and she fought and then, pressing her forehead to her clasped hands, she relented and relaxed her thighs.

“Thank you, sweet.”

Her internal muscles fluttered as I probed her hole with my middle finger. The interior of her cunt was like a cat’s tongue, and I’ve never been able to fuck her with my fingers without having my cock swell at the texture. She was smooth and rough, tight and accommodating all at the same time.

Now she was all tensed up and only just moist enough for me to penetrate. But I knew Amanda. It wouldn’t be for long.

“You know what you want, Amanda.”

The knuckles of her joined fingers were white.  Lips bitten together, the way they started out when I laid a first hard blow on her ass.

“Mmmm.”

It wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was the muted sound of a whimper.  I held my hand still, my finger embedded and motionless. I could read her interior war in the jagged contractions around it.

“Be brave, my gorgeous girl. Come on. You know what you want.”

For a very long moment – an eon in which I had time to wonder if I’d made a very bad mistake – she knelt there like a statue, as seized up on the inside as she looked on the outside.

Maybe I didn’t understand her after all? Maybe I’d convinced myself this would be good for her because it was what I wanted. Maybe I had no fucking business coming between her and her God. Maybe I was just an arrogant prick?

I thought about removing my hand. I thought about the humiliation of patting her on the shoulder and saying: ‘Okay, sorry, love. I’ve made a mistake.’ I wrestled with the consequences of that: of being wrong in her eyes, of heedlessly pushing her where she just couldn’t go.

Then, she inhaled – drank in the musty, incense-bitter air in long, low, stuttered breath  – and began to move her hips.

It wasn’t until that moment I noticed how dry my throat had grown. The rush of relief burned my chest and sent a spike of lust through my groin. Instantly, I was hard and throbbing.

“There’s my good girl,” I whispered, brushing her long hair to onside and tracing her cheek with my free hand.

“Oh, god!” She choked on the words and pushed her ass backwards, forcing more of my finger into her heat.

She did it again, and again. Tiny little backward motions at first. But then her cunt began to weep around my finger, until she slid herself easily onto it and my palm was awash with her juices.

I watched her hips grind. Listened to her breath roughen.  But her eyes were shut tight, and that wouldn’t do.

“Open your eyes, Amanda. Open them.”

“No,” she panted. And now there was that familiar twist in her mouth. The crooked smile she always wore in pleasure.

I angled my hand and forced in a second digit. “Do it! Look at him.”

She gasped and her lids flashed open. Wide, staring. Scared and aroused. But it didn’t stop her from moving. She was still, relentlessly, fucking herself on my fingers.

I slipped my free hand under her jaw and pulled her head up.  “Look at him, Amanda. He’s too damn busy dying to love you like I do.

A harsh sob rose in her throat. I felt it against my fingers, like something ripping out. Below, I felt the first tentative contractions of an impending orgasm. The definitive and fluid motion of her hips.

“He’s never going to love your suffering the way I love it. Never.”

Tears began to course down her cheeks. Her entire body trembled. Slicking my thumb in the sopping mess between her legs, I eased it into her ass.

“No…no…” she gasped.

I wasn’t sure whether she was agreeing with me or was whining about my penetration of her tighter, darker hole. And I didn’t care.

I hauled her back from the rail and plunged my fingers into her with all my strength. “He can’t make you come like I can.”

She stiffened in my arm, jerked once, twice, and orgasmed with such force, I thought she’d squeeze my fingers out of their sockets.  It went on and on: her eyes wide and fixed on that hanging abomination while her fluids poured over my hand, down the insides of her legs.

“Fuck…” she croaked. “Fuck you!”

I didn’t have to ask. I knew who she was talking to. Her gaze was glued to the Christ above the altar. And there was a blazing anger in them. Even as the last of her contractions squeezed around my fingers, as she gave a hard shudder in my arm, she said it again.

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Withdrawing my trapped digits, I freed my hand and smoothed the back of her dress down, then pulled her off her knees onto my lap.

We sat in silence for a while, listening to the pews around us creek as they expanded in the afternoon heat. I smiled as I noticed that her musky scent completely overpowered the acrid smell of the incense.  She cuddled against my chest for a bit and then pulled back to look up at me.

“I’m so insanely hungry.” Her hand snaked into my lap and she rubbed her open palm against the bulge in my pants. “I could suck your cock in an alley, then we could find somewhere to eat.”

I laughed. “No, I’m hungry too. Eat first, fuck later,” I said, getting to my feet and pulling her up with me.

As we walked out of St. James’ and into the early afternoon light, we almost collided with a wizened old priest on rickety legs, climbing the front steps.

“Good afternoon!”

I smiled and nodded. “Afternoon, father.”

“So nice to see young people coming back to the Church,” he said.  His ancient, mottled hand gripped the wrought iron railing and continued his ascent.

  12 comments for “Amanda, Agnus Dei

  1. October 24, 2011 at 5:33 pm

    If this is what happens when you write from the dominant character’s point of view, then please — you really should continue. Well-written and wonderfully appreciated!

    Having come from a conservatively religious background myself, albeit a different one, I understand and connect with Amanda; I think it might have been nice to have a guiding hand like that of the gentleman narrating as I walked away (and down a delightfully kinky path, no less!)

  2. October 24, 2011 at 6:21 pm

    You capture the guilt so beautifully!

  3. DJ Young
    October 24, 2011 at 6:23 pm

    A scene that wouldn’t have been out of place in Last Tango in Paris – I could even picture Marlon Brando (though that is likely not what you had in mind) – but the scene where he ‘breaks’ Maria Schneider (or, possibly, liberates) of all that broke her as a child – quite a serious reminder.

  4. blewtone
    October 24, 2011 at 8:33 pm

    wow! that’s even more impressive than the cutting piece i read. i particularly appreciated the dominant’s pushing her limits to get her through to the new (or at least altered) perspective.
    :)

  5. October 24, 2011 at 10:32 pm

    “He’s never going to love your suffering the way I love it. Never.”

    My favorite line. Loved it.

  6. Dyllan
    October 25, 2011 at 2:24 am

    This is my favorite so far. I love that he admits his insecurities for himself, and even afraid of a greater power she does what he wants. :)

  7. Ashes
    October 25, 2011 at 11:02 am

    Wow *applauds* I’m not of a Christian religious view myself but that is an amazing read.

    Thank you as always for sharing

  8. Adele (TouchofCinnamon)
    October 28, 2011 at 12:06 am

    Wonderfully written. I want more of the same. Point me in the right direction and I’ll order them this weekend.

    Adele (TouchofCinnamon)

  9. October 29, 2011 at 8:37 pm

    This is glorious!

  10. Absinthene
    November 3, 2011 at 8:09 am

    Delicious. *shivers*

  11. November 4, 2011 at 2:55 pm

    Very very good. I like the dom viewpoint too.

  12. Anastaria
    July 4, 2014 at 6:23 pm

    oh yes, this was very good, i loved it!

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