been thinking a lot recently about being a religious girl’s secret lesbian. like, being a girl’s secret is already a hot concept, but adding in a healthy sprinkle of catholic guilt?? holy shit.
when we makeout in her room, she uses her good metal rosary beads from Lourdes to tie my wrists and keep my filthy sinner hands from touching her. she never lets me touch her, except to make her cum. she’s as much shackled to her desires as i am. thing is though, she’s the one who drags me up here every time. her little attic room is plastered with old posters and stacks of books and more vatican-related memorabilia than I could ever count. she has a pope’s signature buried somewhere between a book’s pages, I’m sure. the room’s out of sight from anyone else in the house. more importantly for her, if she closes the blinds the church is obscured. I bruise my knees when i fall between her thighs, and I make my own altar where I kneel.
she helps out at mass, handing out communion from the chalice on the side aisle where I always sit. when it comes to feeding me communion, though, she does it the old fashioned way—pulling my tongue from my mouth and placing the wafer down. she watches me the entire time, ensuring I at least take communion to redeem some part of me before she pulls me into her bed later. it’s over in mere seconds, before anyone can notice the red on either of our cheeks. still, the walk back to kneel and give thanks feels like a mile. all I end up giving thanks for is the feeling of her fingers near my mouth.
