#offertory

[twobrothersatwork]

“As in holocausts of rams, and bullocks, and as in thousands of fat lambs: so let our sacrifice be made in thy sight this day, that it may please thee: for there is no confusion to them that trust in thee.”

Offertory (Dan. 3:40, Roman Catholic Daily Missal 1962).

[nathanalbright151]

When You Reap The Harvest Of Your Land

[Note: The following is the prepared message for the offertory message for Pentecost services in Portland, Oregon delivered on June 16, 2024.] Good morning brethren. At the end of the discussion of the Feast of Weeks in Leviticus 23, there is an unusual offering that is discussed that I would like to draw our attention to today. We find this offering in Leviticus 23:22. Leviticus 23:22 reads:…

[penhive]

Assorted

Rajiv Gandhi a Memoir

I am very fond of Rajiv Gandhi and he is the leader of the opposition party the Congress. I call him as Che Guevara of India. In order to revive the ailing fortunes of the Congress party, he walked on foot the whole length and breadth of India. The ruling party is focusing guns on him when he remarked in the parliament about corruption and nepotism and they disqualified his status as the member of the parliament. He was also given a misconstrued jail sentence.  He is the apple of the eye for the Indian masses. In his march throughout India, he mingled with common folks, hugged them and had snacks and tea with them. Rajiv Gandhi is a down to earth, people friendly politician. The fortunes of the Congress are being revived as the Congress won stunning landslide victory in the elections held in Karnataka. I hope Rahul Gandhi becomes the Prime Minister of India after winning the next elections.

Gruesome Murder

She was a surgeon doctor in Kerala. While she was on night duty, the cops brought a drug addict teacher and left him with her.  The druggie took her surgical instruments and brutally stabbed her to death. It is the Kerala Government’s failure to provide adequate security for doctors who are doing the night shift.

Offertory

I was given 100 Rupees by mother to put as offering in the church offertory. I thought of keeping back it myself but then I changed my mind as I know it’s no gain to cheat God. It’s better not to cheat God.

[frmauritius]

What can I offer personally?

At the center of the Holy Eucharist is the offertory. What can I offer? I can certainly give money in the collection. But the offertory invites us to go deeper. Just as Christ offers himself, I am invited to give myself as well. I can offer myself, personally. It is not difficult. I can offer my gratitude, as Psalm 116:17 suggests, “I will offer a sacrifice of praise.” I can offer, in some way,…

[sorqpmusicmin]

Take this Bread and Wine

Take this bread and wine as we offer them today We lift them up to You, O Lord, bless them with Your spirit

Take this sacrifice as we cleans our heart and mind Let Your spirit come from heavens above and guide us through our lives

We will eat this bread, Your Body We will drink this wine, Your Blood We proclaim our salvation as we receive this bread and wine

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Body back, body back, body back | BODY BACK

CW: suicide

At first, they just stare at each other. The man’s got the same look in his eye—something gilt, something feral, an identical fear in his mouth. Harrison blinks hard, and the man does too—not a man, actually, but his own reflection.

He approaches the mirror, jolts at the way he touches his reflection—more carefully than he’s ever been touched before. Who are you? he wants to say. He’d like to leave this place now, the club, Las Vegas, the earth. He’d like to buy himself a pet tarantula, run off a cliffside, eat a tub of ice cream with his bare hands. Why did he come here again? His mind is so quiet. This could be peace. But who is he? In Jeremiah’s bathroom he knew, but now there’s this stranger ahead of him, the person who must be him—someone's chandelier earring grazing his jaw, the cowboy hat lopsided, mascara running down his cheeks even though he hasn’t cried. Where did you go? he mouths, but he knows. He’s disappeared also like Jesus in the tomb, his limbs vanishing one by one, his skin melting off his hands—body gone, body gone, body gone. He grabs his cheeks, panicked because he’s on fire, gold tossed into the crucible. He’s going to burn to ash. He’s going to need a burial soon. His face has been stolen, his breastbone and knuckles too. A month ago, someone spat him into a basket like his body was ripe for the offertory—body gone, body gone, body gone.

“Back,” Harrison says, nose grazing the spattered mirror. His chest swells, and maybe he is burning, and maybe he’s right here, hidden somewhere in the pinprick of his reflection. “Back,” he repeats. He isn’t thoughtful. He isn’t profound. Maybe that’s fine. He squeezes his tear-duct, sticks out his tongue. He’ll die eventually, let his body disappear, but not right now. “Body back, body back, body back.”

A TITLE DROP???

[bonguri]

20230331 Tarumi railway 4 by Bong Grit Via Flickr: 参道に神社があったのでお参り。八王子神社だそうです。 @Tanigumisan Kegonji temple, Ibigawa town, Ibi district, Gifu pref. （岐阜県揖斐郡揖斐川町 谷汲山華厳寺）

[granonine]

Sunday Afternoon Tea

We were running just a tad late this morning, so I decided to post this afternoon instead. I was nervous. I was scheduled to play the offertory at church. This would be the first time in several years since I’d done so, never have done it at Calvary.  One of the things we are encouraged to do in the piano program I’m taking is to play for others. I’ve been working on a pretty arrangement of the…

[breelandwalker]

Further Fun Facts:

The cats in question were, at least in part, Norwegian Forest Cats. As kittens, they look like this:

When they grow up, they are huge and floofy and look like this:

I would marry just to get one of these cats.

Giving kittens to new brides.

[satoruhour]

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

[chiefhellenist]

Daily Devotions with the Orphic Hymns

Today is 4th of Metageitnion (21st of August)

This modern system of daily devotions blends material from two sources: Hesiod's sacred month, as described in his Works and Days, and the Orphic Hymns. The ideas in the Orphic Hymns sometimes don't match with more mainstream beliefs of the polis. But using these hymns is worth it because it helps us honor not just the main gods, but also many smaller ones. This way, we can pay our respects to a wide range of gods throughout the whole month.

Other hymns may of course be substituted at the individual's discretion. The numbers given for the hymns correspond to those in Apostolos N. Athanassakis, The Orphic Hymns: Text, Translation and Notes

Thomas Taylor's 1792 translation of the hymns is available online, free and in its entirety, at the Internet Sacred Texts Archive. Here:

Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning

Wash hands and face

Light lamp or candle

Hymn to Hestia (#84)

Light incense

Hymn to Eos (#78)

Hymn to Helios (#8)

Hymn(s) to special god/dess(es) of the day (see chart)

Additional hymns as desired (see chart)

Pour libation

Make personal supplications and thanksgivings

"Orpheus to Mousaios" (pp. 2-5)

Extinguish lamp or candle

Evening

Wash hands and face

Light lamp or candle

Hymn to Hestia (#84)

Light incense

Hymn to Nyx (#3)

Hymn to Selene (#9)

Hymn to the Stars (#7)

Hymn(s) to patron/matron god/desses

Hymn to Sleep (#85)

Hymn to Dream (#86)

Pour libation

Make personal supplications and thanksgivings

Hymn to Zeus (#15)

Extinguish lamp or candle

A shortened version of the devotions may be done by simply lighting a candle, reading "Orpheus to Mousaios," saying any personal prayers, and extinguishing the candle.

Notes on chart:

Days mentioned by Hesiod as sacred to specific deities are marked.

Horkos is the god (or, if you like, personification) of Oath. Days sacred to this deity are considered difficult.

As the lunar calendar months range between 29 and 30 days in the Greek reckoning, it may be necessary in short months to recite all the hymns for both day 29 and day 30 on the day of the dark moon. As the last day of the month is sacred to Hekate, Her hymn should always be included.

About Incense

The Orphic Hymns specify particular types of incense to be offered to each deity. In cases where one is saying multiple hymns with differing instructions, one might either choose a single type or make a blend of all those indicated. Pure frankincense makes a good all-purpose offertory incense.

The incense specifications from the Orphic text are as follows:

Frankincense: Apollon, Ares, Artemis, Asklepios, Bakkhai, Dike, Eos, Hephaistos, Herakles, Hermes, Hygeia, Kouretes, Muses, Nike, Satyros, Silenos, Tethys, Themis, Titans

Myrrh: Leto, Nereus, Poseidon

Storax: Chthonic Hermes, Dionysos, Eleusinian Demeter, Erinues (also frankincense), Graces, Kronos, Semele, Zeus

Aromatic Herbs: Adonis, Athena, Eros, Eumenides, Fates, Hera, Hestia, Horai, Nereids, Nymphs, Okeanos, Rhea

Various: Mother of the Gods, Pan, Chthonic Dionysos (any except frankincense), Gaia (any grain; no beans or aromatic herbs)

No Incense (underworld deities): Hekate, Nemesis, Persephon

[aaknopf]

Nam Le, celebrated author of The Boat, makes his poetic debut with a collection titled, 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem. Reading these pieces, which expose the harm, humor, and difficulty of language itself for a Vietnamese refugee living in the West, we come across far more than thirty-six ways of understanding Le’s diasporic experience. Number 17, offered here, centers the kitchen as a place of generational knowledge and boundary-crossing.

[17. Culinary]

(OFFERTORY)

I put a little...                        see if you can guess

sweet or bitter—                        how know one without the other?

longan, mangosteen     sapodilla                       star anise & lotus seed

something from the karstic north                        but with Western tang

passed on from my mother                        and her mother     and hers...

blood ligament     of kitchen labour                        wisdom     all compressed

into this blank deep-strata rock.                        Yes, the geode pulses

with secret inward gleams                        but it stays silent.

Until now!     Until me!                        My tongue rings all!

I am loud with every flavour, every humour,                        equally of north, south, east, west

and     as she made me                        I will make you, mother.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem and The Boat by Nam Le.

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[nathanalbright151]

Everyone Who Prepares His Heart To Seek God

[Note: These are the prepared notes for an offertory sermonette given to the United Church of God congregation in Portland, Oregon on the First Day of Unleavened Bread, April 6, 2023.] Good afternoon brethren. I hope you all had a wonderful Night To Be Much Observed last night and that you are well rested today as we begin the Days of Unleavened Bread. One of the patterns that we can read in the…

[onboardsorasora]

Honestly, I think my favourite thing is looking through writing prompts. I loved this one

You are getting desperate. You have already tried everything and your husband still thinks you are just a really dedicated cosplayer, not a fairy.

Daniel sighed gustily as he walked outside with his coffee mug and took in what looked like another lack of offering on the brand new altar. He’d hoped that by creating a dedicated space that was clearly altar-like and inviting, that Max would have gotten the hint by now. 

He pouted, of course he’d have to go fall in love with the one human who didn’t believe in fairies. It had been cute at first and what kept him coming back to the surface to see Max. To follow him around, keeping other creatures from encroaching on what was his. It was refreshing to not be feared and to be treated not like he could like wipe out a whole bloodline or whatever. But the longer they were together, Daniel was realizing that Max thought this was all a joke. A fantasy.

He hadn’t realized what a big deal it had been when Daniel had finally told him his name. Max had offered his up within the first minute of them ‘officially’ meeting. It wasn’t until after they were living together that things started to become clear.

‘Oh Daniel, I didn’t even hear when you got up early this morning. Do you reapply your make up daily? What do you look like without it?’ 

‘It’s not makeup Maxy, this is what I look like?’ Daniel glanced dubiously in the mirror at his kohl eye markings and the runes and hieroglyphs that marked up his arms like tattoos. His ears were pointed for forest’s sake and his skin absorbed the sun.

‘Oh, well I accept your choices. It is of course your body.’ Max had left it at that and Daniel had been confused.

Daniel had begun to wonder if Max knew charms and spells because what other reason would there be for a fairy to willingly leave everything they knew to live above ground with a human who refused to even do the most basic things. Max broke fairy rings so often that Daniel just stopped making them on the property.

‘Daniel, why are there all these flower circles in the garden. They are beautiful but a bit much I think.’

‘Maxy, what? They’re fairy rings. They're here because I’m here– so I can visit home easier.’ Daniel was confused. Max looked confused for a second before his face smoothed out into one of understanding. Daniel had started to fear that look.

‘I do suppose they are pretty to look at when you are on the phone with your mother.’

And after that devastation, Max had left it alone.

Daniel glared at the marble altar, he’d thought it was so beautiful. Imagined how lovely it would have been to get offerings on it– how happy it would have made him. But Max had nipped that in the bud.

‘You want me to buy you gifts and place them out there instead of just giving them to you?’ Max had looked at him like it was the dumbest thing Daniel had ever told him. And Daniel had said some stupid shit before.

‘I– when you say it like that…” Daniel whispered. ‘You’re right– it's silly. Never mind Maxy.’

That had been over a week ago and Daniel had already called for its removal. Maybe they could use the foundation to build a bar or something. Maybe Max would appreciate that.

He turned, ready to head through the garden gate so he could wander his territory when a glint caught his eye from the altar. Whatever it was, wasn’t there before because Daniel usually inspected the slab of marble keenly.

Curiously, he stepped closer. Daniel felt his eyes prickle even as his mouth dropped open in surprise. There in the offertory divot was a small package of sweets, the silver wrapping was what had caught his attention. Daniel touched it reverently, his tattooed hand trembling. 

He hadn’t gotten an offering in so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like. How the rush of energy felt like a power up. He smiled a wet smile and majiked the candy away.

“Bwoah– where did it go?” Max’s voice was so close that Daniel jumped in surprise. He’d been so focused on his offering he hadn’t noticed his boyfriend's presence. Max was looking at him in abject shock, like he’d never seen him before now.

“I–oh! Below.” Daniel said simply, his runes glowed in the sun before going back to their regular state. “Thank you Maxy.” Daniel said, completely heartfelt. He leaned in and kissed his boyfriend before walking away with more than a pep in his step.

Max watched him go– frozen to the spot. He looked between the altar and Daniel a few times before running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that explains a few things.” He mumbled.

[myargalargan]

Been thinking about the fact that what the choir sings at the start of Polin's wedding scene, while everyone is still entering the church, is the "Hostias" movement from Mozart's Requiem...

I thought this was an interesting choice, because typically you would perform Requiem music at a Requiem Mass, which is a Mass for the dead... A funeral...

Been thinking about the fact that, immediately before Polin's wedding scene, we have the scene of Queen Charlotte and her revelation about the identity of Lady Whistledown, which leads her to confronting the Bridgertons at Polin's wedding breakfast.

The idea that this moment—the Queen's realization, the impact it will have on the wedding and on Polin's relationship—marks a major turning point in Lady Whistledown's demise...

And then there's this line from Apuleius's story of Cupid and Psyche, as Psyche's family prepares to deliver her to what they believe will be a monster of a husband thanks to Apollo's prophecy:

"The trappings for the most wretched virgin’s funereal wedding were set in place."

Not only that, but thinking about the fact that the "Hostias" movement is part of the Offertory section of the Mass.

The Offertory, being about sacrifice. The bread and wine are offered up for blessing. The collection plate is passed around. The text is literally:

"Hostias et preces tibi, Domine,

laudis offerimus"

"Sacrifices and prayers, O Lord,

we offer to you in praise"

Sacrifices for what? For pardon from our sins. So that we may enter into eternal life after our worldly death...

And thus, Psyche is accepted, and granted immortality.

[satangod666]

The Satanic Ritual

1 The opening of the Gates of Pandemonium:

Grasp the Bell of Commencement and sound it once at each of the five points of the

Pentagonia while turning widdershins. Afterward, replace the bell upon the altar.

2 Grasp the Sword of Satan and point it once at each of the five points of the Pentagonia,

beginning at the upper left point of the altar and then turning widdershins as you pause

at each point, address the Dark Lords thus:

Be Present Satan, Great Adversary Of Jehovah!

Be Present Belial, Great Prince Of The Wicked!

Be Present Leviathan, Great Serpent Of Infernal Seas!

Be Present Beelzebub, Great Lord Of The Flies!

Be Present Lucifer, Great Morning Star And Light-Bringer!

Afterward, replace the sword upon the altar.

3 Face the Satanagram and recite the Invocation of Infernal Power.

IN THE NAME OF ALMIGHTY SATAN, PRINCE OF EVIL AND DARKNESS, I ENTER

INTO THE ALLIANCE OF INFERNAL POWER! THE GATES OF PANDEMONIUM

HAVE OPENED WIDE AND THE DEMONS RIDE THE NIGHTWINDS TO THIS

UNHOLY PREACHMENT! ATTEND MY WORKINGS OF BLACK ART AND FULFILL

THE DESIRES OF MY INFERNAL WILL! IN SATANICUS HONOS!

4 Offertory:

Grasp the Chalice of Change and raise it to the Satanagram in an offering manner while

saying:

I PRESENT TO YOU, DARK LORD, THE ELIXOR OF CHANGE! BRING FORTH THE

INFERNAL WILL!

Drink from the chalice.

5 Grasp the Sword of Satan and point it towards the Satanagram while calling forth the

appropriate demons.

Afterward, replace the sword upon the altar.

6 The Creative Darkness.

7 Face the Satanagram and recite the appropriate Decree of Satan.

8 The Decrees of Satan are statements of Infernal Law—words of conviction and purpose.

The demonic elements in attendance are the executors of the principles of the

-26-

Satanagram. The Satanic Will has been exercised and the decrees are the words of

enforcement. Each Decree of Satan Correlates with a specific rite and shall be

appropriately applied. At the conclusion of the Creative Darkness, the proper decree is

recited by the celebrant while facing the Satanagram.

BY THE POWERS OF MY INFERNAL WILL AND BY THE LAWS OF THE

SATANAGRAM, I DO HEREBY ADDRESS YOU, MY DEMONIC BRETHREN OF THE

NIGHT! YOU, WHO HAVE SEEN AND FELT THE POTENCY OF MY LUST, MY ACT

OF ANOINTMENT, AND MY DESIRE FOR HER (HIM), GO FORTH! GO FORTH AND

FILL HER (HIM) WITH INSATIABLE DESIRE SO THAT SHE (HE) WILL COME

UNTO ME! FULFILL MY DESIRES! IN SATANICUS HONOS!

BY THE POWERS OF MY INFERNAL WILL AND BY THE LAWS OF THE

SATANAGRAM, I DO HEREBY ADDRESS YOU, MY DEMONIC BRETHREN OF THE

NIGHT! YOU, WHO HAVE SEEN AND FELT MY SORROWS OF THE ONE WHO

SUFFERS, GO FORTH! GO FORTH O BENEVOLENT ONES, AND SMASH THE

CHAINS THAT TORMENT THIS WORTHY ONE! STRENGTHEN AND DIRECT HER

(HIS) FLIGHT TO JOY AND CONTENTMENT! FULFILL MY DESIRES! IN

SATANICUS HONOS!

BY THE POWERS OF MY INFERNAL WILL AND BY THE LAWS OF THE

SATANAGRAM, I DO HEREBY ADDRESS YOU, MY DEMONIC BRETHREN OF THE

NIGHT! YOU, WHO HAVE SEEN AND FELT MY ANGER AND HATRED TOWARD MY

ADVERSARY, GO FORTH! GO FORTH, HERALDERS OF WOE AND DESTRUCTION,

AND REND HER (HIM) WITH INCREASE, WITHOUT END AND UNTO DEATH!

FULFILL MY DESIRES! IN SATANICUS HONOS!

9 Closing the Gates of Pandemonium:

Grasp the Bell of Commencement and sound it once at each of the five points of the

Pentagonia while turning clockwise.

Replace the bell upon the altar.

END OF RITUAL.

-27-

Book IV:

The Satanic Philosophy

-28-

Pandemonium: The Infernal Hierarchy

PRINCES:

Lucifer: Morning Star and Light-bringer; Satan: Adversary of God; Belial: a Vicious and Wicked

Beast; Beelzebub: Lord of the Flies; Leviathan: Prince of Heresies and Serpent of the Infernal

seas.

THE FIRST LEGION:

Set, Tiamat, Eblis, Mephistopheles, Ahriman, Fenris, Pan, Abaddon, Apollyon

THE SECOND LEGION:

Asmodeus, Adramaleck, Astaroth, Kali, Nergal, Lilith, Typhon, Moloch, Midgard, Diabolus

THE THIRD LEGION:

Caop, Amon, Skoll, Hati, Azazel, Marchocias, Serapis, Bali, Orias, Maskim, Mastema, Nebrios,

Emma, Furfur, Pazuzu

THE FOURTH LEGION:

Pursan, Nabarus, Alastor, Silcharde, Incubus, Succubus, Hekate, Asag, Mara, Euronome,

Forneus, Xaphan, Ukoback, Belphegor, Kobal, Lerva, Necrofiend, Basilisk

****** Magickal Laws Regarding Successful Evocation of Devils and Demons ******

1 Suspend “non-belief” during Ritual. Fantasy is essential to successful Ritual.

You lm

2 Suspend “non-belief” while applying Outer Magickal Art/suggestion, etc. The catalyst, in

most instances, to realizing one’s ritualized desires lies with the application of positive or

negative fantasy; created situations; the use of what is commonly known as

“superstition”.

3 The Devil and demons were created and have been re-created by Man throughout

history. The Devil and/or demons are re-created through ritual and Outer Magickal Art;

in all other instances, our doctrine maintains a stance of non-belief, i.e., Book I: The

Denouncement of Theism.

-29-

Book V:

The Rituals of Satanic Proper

-30-

The Pact Of Satan

Membership with most elite organizations or private societies usually require an initiation rite and/or formal membership document which is signed by the initiate. This tends to be true (though in varying forms) also with regard to Satanic organizations and “realms”.

Historically speaking, Black Arts practitioners seeking Satanic alliance would call up a demon, or Satan Himself, to make a Pact in exchange for power of various sorts instead of joining a “Satanic group”. Moreover, hundreds of years ago, such groups weren’t “open” or well-known, now were “Devil’s books” readily available to the general public through “retailers”, as any kind of “Satanic” worship was considered a crime punishable by death. Thank the Devil and Enlightenment for our freedom from some of “God’s” religio/social injustices; anyone can now enter into union with the Devil without being “completely” criminalized!

The Pact of Satan is synonymous with the Xian rites of baptism as a purification device, whereas the Xian baptism is performed to symbolically cleanse the initiate of “original sin”, the Pact of Satan represents the initiate’s willful rejection of the belief in the existence of deities, and a rejection of the widespread Xian doctrines of deceit.

Ultimately the pact serves as a greeting and acceptance into Satan’s world of Darkness.

Special note regarding solitary Satanists: making a pact with Satan is not necessary to

successfully practice the Black Arts. The Pact of Satan ritual is geared to individuals who prefer to further formalize their dedication in a group setting.

Requirements for performance The standard altar articles are employed in the customary manner in addition to the initiate’s Pact articles (which sit upon a small table to the immediate right of the altar) which consists of: one Satanagram pendant, a black robe, two Pact of Satan contracts (one for the initiate and one for the priest who represents the Devil’s emissary) and a pre-arranged Satanic (magickal) name chose by the initiate.

Attendance requirements: the priest performing the rite, an assistant and the initiate. The priest and his assistant are garbed in the customary manner. The initiate wears a silver (gray is acceptable) robe.

-31-

The Pact of Satan

1 The celebrant grasps the Bell of Commencement and opens the Gates of Pandemonium.

2 The celebrant grasps the Sword of Satan and evokes the Dark Lords from the five points

of the Pentagonia:

BE PRESENT SATAN, GREAT ADVERSARY OF JEHOVAH!

BE PRESENT BELIAL, GREAT PRINCE OF THE WICKED!

BE PRESENT LEVIATHAN, GREAT SERPENT OF THE INFERNAL SEAS!

BE PRESENT BEELZEBUB, GREAT LORD OF THE FLIES!

BE PRESENT LUCIFER, GREAT MORNING STAR AND LIGHT-BRINGER!

3 All participants face the Satanagram as the celebrant recites the Invocation to Lucifer:

O LUCIFER, PRIDEFUL MORNING STAR, SUPREME IN BEAUTY AND POWER,

HEAR ME! GRANT HIM (HER), THIS ENLIGHTENED FALLEN ANGEL—EXODUS

FROM THE HEAVENLY ABYSS OF SLAVERY AND THE TYRANT KING—THE

KNOWLEDGE AND WILL OF YOUR DARK SOUL, SATAN! DARK CREATOR OF THE

ANGLES OF DARKNESS, HEREIN WE THE DARK SOULS DWELL! GUIDE AND

EMPOWER HIM (HER) NOW AND FOREVERMORE! IN LUCIFERI HONOS!

4 All drink from the Chalice of Change (the celebrant, then his assistant, and finally the

initiate).

5 The celebrant recites the Pact of Oration which the initiate repeats after him:

LUCIFER—LORD OF MY DARK SOUL, I (common or Xian name) DO HEREBY

RENOUNCE GOD, JESUS THE NAZARENE, XIANITY AND MY FORMER BAPTISM,

FOR I AM OF THE EARTH, DARKNESS, AND THE POWERS OF THE INFERNAL

ONE! ACCEPT ME AS YOUR EVIL ALLY BY THIS NAME, (Satanic name)! IN

LUCIFERI HONOS!

6 The celebrant presents the two Pacts of Satan to the initiate for signing.

7 The assistant removes the silver robe from the initiate who then dons the black robe.

8 The celebrant bestows the Satanagram pendant upon the initiate while saying:

WELCOME (Satanic name), BROTHER (SISTER) OF DARKNESS!

9 All turn to face the Satanagram as the celebrant finalizes the rite with the words:

IN SATANICUS HONOS!

-32-

The Pact Of Satan

LUCIFER—LORD OF MY DARK SOUL, I __________________, DO

HEREBY RENOUNCE GOD, JESUS THE NAZARENE, XIANITY, AND

MY FORMER BAPTISM, FOR I AM OF THE EARTH, DARKNESS, AND

THE POWERS OF THE INFERNAL ONE! ACCEPT ME AS YOUR EVIL

ALLY BY THIS NAME:

________________________

INITIATE

DATED THIS NIGHT,

__________, ____ ________________________

WITNESS

________________________

PRIEST/PRIESTESS OF SATAN

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The Ritual Of Antichrist

THE SIGIL OF ANTICHRIST

If you truly have a Darkness to your soul then this ritual will be both inspiring and self-fulfilling. However, by the same token, if you’re attempting to become something you’re not, it can bring forth a demon of self-destruction. Therefore, know thyself!

The Main Focus of this Ritual

1 To purge any residual Xian influence from the essence of the celebrant’s Being.

2 To cause the essential Darkness of the celebrant to grow, thus expanding the Sixth Sense.

3 To strengthen the Will to oppose the Xian doctrines.

The ritual represents the Forces of Darkness and their emergence in the Age of Evil. During the ritual, both elements of Good and Evil are present. Evil is the most active force (excepting Nature) in existence on this planet. It is a force far superior and dominant in its nature than is goodness. This should be obvious to anyone who is aware of Man’s history and today’s socioreligious climate. Xianity always has been, and always will be, a static (and I hate to use the word) force. Just as Man is naturally endowed with Earthly instincts and desires so it is with Man’s natural predilection to evil (immorality). People as a whole, and as individuals, need to stop cheating themselves and learn to live not in the imaginary shadow of a non-existent god.

There is no time for guilt regarding sin; there is no time for paying the church for regular guilt inducement; there is no time for soiling one’s knees for the sake of appeasing an imaginary, antithetical god! There is no time for acknowledging a god who has never lived, but certainly has died!

My fellow Satanists, the Age of Evil has arrived. Our Age—for times and times eternally. Read and understand! Practice and BECOME!

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Requirements for performance

With the exception of the burning charcoal contained in the brazier, the Ritual of Antichrist

begins in complete darkness, which symbolizes the arrival of the Age of Evil. The Age when the Wicked will plunge Man and the Earth into Eternal Darkness!

The Sigil of Antichrist represents the warrior spirit of the Beast 666. The cross, of course, is

associated with the Nazarene and his teachings; the inversion of such is the symbolic

renunciation and antithesis of his religious philosophy. The lightning bolt represents the Will and Power and the cruel wrath of Antichrist. The 666 is of course, the accepted numerical symbol of Antichrist.

Ultimately, the Sigil of Antichrist is the symbol of religious revelation and anarchy—of things to come! The sigil replaces the Satanagram as the altarpiece above the altar.

Six black candles are employed as this symbolizes the singular aspect of the number of the Beast and the Sixth Sense of all antichrists. Regarding placement, five of the six candles rest upon the points of the Angles of the Pentagonia on the floor before the altar. A single black candle endowed with the Spirit of Antichrist rests in the center of the altar, directly beneath the Sigil. Ignited charcoal in a large brazier represents Hell’s flaming Pit—from which the Grand Conjuration and subsequent release of the Devils of Evilution symbolize the forces of the developing religious war between Xians and us. The brazier is placed at the left side of the altar.

The function of the Xian Bible in this ritual is two-fold: first, it is employed as a sacrifice; the celebrant tears seven leaves from its binding and casts them into the Pit to suffer destruction and damnation. The second part involves the recital of its Antichrist disclosure: Revelation 13.

The Bible is placed in front of the brazier.

Conjuration saltes are more commonly known as “flash powder”. They are employed to

emphasize evocation. A small vessel of the saltes is placed next to the brazier.

The skull is placed on the altar between the Candle of Antichrist and the Sword of Satan. The thurible burns an Earthy scent which is most pleasing to the celebrant: it is placed at the rightrear area of the altar. The Chalice of Change with its emotion-stimulating elixor is placed directly in front of the thurible. The Sword of Satan occupies its customary position, which is at the forepart of the altar.

The essence of this ritual dictates that its accompanying music would be of a supremely

triumphant nature.

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The Ritual of Antichrist

1 In the darkness, the celebrant faces the Sigil of Antichrist as he recites the Invocation of

Antichrist:

IN THE NAME OF BELIAL I INVOKE YOU—SPIRIT OF ANTICHRIST—COME

FORTH! FOR I AM THE FIRST, AND MANY WILL FOLLOW! IN THE SPIRIT OF THE

BEAST, COME FORTH—FOR I AM THE SAME, AND THE FAITHFUL ARE FEARFUL!

IN RECOGNITION OF THE NUMBER, COME FORTH—FOR THE CONQUEST HAS

BEGUN!

2 The celebrant stoops to light each candle of the Pentagonia. After lighting the first, he

evokes:

FROM THE ANGLE OF SATAN, I CONJURE THE FIRES OF EVIL!

After lighting the second, he evokes:

FROM THE ANGLE OF BELIAL, I CONJURE THE LANDS OF EVIL!

After lighting the third, he evokes:

FROM THE ANGLE OF LEVIATHAN, I CONJURE THE SEAS OF EVIL!

After lighting the fourth, he evokes:

FROM THE ANGLE OF BEELZEBUB, I CONJURE THE SKIES OF EVIL!

After lighting the fifth, he evokes:

FROM THE ANGLE OF LUCIFER, I CONJURE THE RACE OF EVIL!

The celebrant lights the Candle of Antichrist and intones:

I CONJURE THE WILL OF THE GREAT BEAST—ANTICHRIST!

Immediately following each of the six avocations, the celebrant tosses a small amount of

conjuration saltes into the candle flames.

3 The celebrant (and all participants) drink from the Chalice of Change.

4 The celebrant grasps the Sword of Satan and points it towards the Sigil of Antichrist

while reciting the Conjuration of Darkness—666:

SATAN—IN YOUR MOST UNHOLY NAME, HEAR ME! OUR TIMES—THE AGE OF

EVIL AND ITS CREATIVE SPIRIT OF ANTICHRIST HAS COME! I AM THE

REVERENT ONE—A BEAST BORN OF THE EARTH AND THE INFERNAL KINGDOM!

I AM THE CONVEYOR OF WISDOM AND FOLLY! I AM THE BESTOWER OF

STRENGTH AND WEAKNESS! I AM THE PUBLISHER OF ALIENATION AND UNITY!

I AM THE CREATOR OF LIFE AND DEATH! I AM THE SAVIOR OF MAN AND THE

DESTROYER OF THE NAZARENE! I AM THE SOUL OF DARKNESS—A BLACK

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BEACON OF INFERNAL LIGHT TO THE WORTHY, AND A SIGN OF DOOM TO THE

LAMBS! I AM THE WILL, THE PURPOSE AND THE FIGHT! I AM ANTICHRIST!

5 The Holy Sacrifice.

6 The celebrant faces the Sigil of Antichrist and recites the biblical passage, Revelation 13:

1-18.

7 The Evocation and release of the Devils of Evilution. The celebrant grasps the Sword of

Satan and steadies the point of the blade in the Flame of Antichrist as he evokes the

Devils of Evilution thus:

PAN, COME FORTH AND SMEAR THE EARTH WITH YOUR DOCTRINES OF

CARNALITY!

FENRIS, COME FORTH AND FREE THE BEAST TO WAGE THE WAR!

LEVIATHAN, COME FORTH TO FILL THE MINDS OF MEN WITH THE WISDOM OF

EVIL!

DIABOLUS, COME FORTH TO JUDGE AND IMPRISON THE LAMBS OF THE

NAZARENE!

SET, COME FORTH TO DESTROY THE XIAN FAITH AND ITS MASSES!

The sword is replaced on the altar.

8 The celebrant closes the rite by dousing the smoldering charcoal with a plentiful amount

of conjuration saltes.