MIDNIGHT. Hand-in-hand, two naked figures pass beneath the weather-beaten curves of a Romanesque arch, each slowly traversing the cool flagstones of the spacious nave and following the shifting shadows that make their way along the dank, grey wall of the south aisle.
Dwarfed by the imposing lectern that rises on their left like the approaching prow of a Viking longship, its carved wooden surfaces as intricate as the gnarled and twisted trees of a petrified forest, they reach the south transept and marvel, wide-eyed, at the medieval sublimity of its tiny side-chapel. The rectangular altar stands beneath one of the east-facing windows and is draped in a long, white sheet, its pristine folds illuminated by a petulant swirl of moonbeams as they stream through the stained-glass like a swarm of mystical fireflies.
The young woman, her hazel eyes shining with childlike innocence, allows herself to fall backwards into her lover's arms and is gently raised onto the altar until she is perfectly supine. Her arms are crossed like a marble statue upon the surface of an ornate tomb, her ripening breasts rise and fall in trepidation. The nipples - their soft pink tones steeped with a rare feminine beauty - begin to harden and her legs are slightly parted, allowing her male accomplice to place his wide palms across the top of her white thighs and plunge his tongue deep into her sex. She arches her back and moans with pleasure, as the man ravishes her senses and sends lurid colours coursing through her pale body like liquid rainbows. She begins to tremble, almost violently, as the approaching orgasm increases in ferocity and sends her into wild spasms of unbridled joy.
The man is astride her now, his penis erect and quivering, as he enters her with one deep thrust and causes her to cry out with the sheer intoxication of the moment. His movements are steady, rhythmic, increasing in speed until he too releases a cry of emotion and feels himself ejaculating into the confines of her warm vagina. She, too, caught in the throes of a second orgasm, emits a tiny squeal of pleasure and senses the hot jet of semen as it fills her insides and infuses her being with its natural potency. Sexual energy flows like the pure waters of a mountain spring and the two are caught in a moonlit embrace; heretical silhouettes crouched beneath a silent figure on a wooden cross who studies them with characteristic disapproval. Nonetheless, the ritual has been fulfilled and the sanctification of the barren church is complete. Two spiritual heathens gate-crashing the House of God and filling the air, not with incense, but with the sweet musk of divine copulation.
'I'll see you next week,' he says.
She smiles, gathers up her discarded clothes and makes the sign of the cross. 'You are my Saint,' she answers. 'My Sacral Lover and bearer of the Holy Sceptre.'
He strokes her cheek and kisses her on the forehead. 'And you are my Mary Magdalene," he teases, 'and I shall keep you in a state of unremitting profanity and enjoy you again and again.'
Together, they stride back down the aisle and become lost in the dark shadows of the graveyard. The hoot of an owl pierces the wounded night like the Spear of Longinus entering the side of Christ Himself.
* * *
Some time later, a male figure appears among the central pews, yawning loudly and rubbing his eyes. 'My goodness,' he exclaims. 'What an incredible dream.'
Rising, like Lazarus of Bethany, the slightly hunched figure of Father McAllister shuffles his way along the cushioned row and begins to walk down the silent nave. As he reaches the thick doors of the south porch entrance and steps outside into the chilly night air, the guilt descends upon him like a pregnant rain-cloud. 'A draught of strong whisky might help to clear the proverbial cobwebs,' he says aloud. 'Particularly in the absence of haircloth.'
'Perhaps we can help?' says a female voice, as gentle and mysterious as a woodland faun.
'Who is it? Who's there?' answers the priest.
The naked couple walk towards him, smiling. The woman's hands are outstretched and the man is carrying a scourge. Having seen enough, two mice scuttle beneath the church organ and Father McAllister begins to scream.
SteemPresss'd from Nowhere.News : See Original Article @ http://nowhere.news/index.php/2020/03/04/the-heretics-a-fantasy/
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