12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #2: Silent Night

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Rachel watched herself in the mirror as she shakily undid her plain black bra, watching it as it fell at her feet and revealed her breasts, red splotches covering her areola and nipples.

“Jesus” She let out in a hoarse whisper, and felt a stab of guilt as she did so, given the circumstances.

Despite all this, her cunt was still alive and on fire, pulsating to its own rhythm, something Rachel wasn’t in tune to. It scared her. She wanted no part in it.

Yet as she peeled off her panties, emerald satin with fine black lace detailing around the edges, she could smell the strong aroma of her cunt.

It was so strong it almost made her gag, not for distaste but because her own scent was intense. She could count on one hand the times she had witnessed that, and she didn’t care to count them out right now.

Rachel needed to shower, scalding hot or freezing cold, both were acceptable. Anything to shake the uneasy feeling that what she had done was wrong, terribly wrong.

But all she could think of was laying back on the bed behind her and finishing what she had started. She could watch herself, which was something she had wanted to do but felt weird about it. Narcissistic. She would only point out the flaws in her body anyway, right?

Well, not tonight. Tonight she wanted to watch her fingers glide over her wet slit and slide –

 

It was the middle of summer and yet when Rachel stepped out of the car alongside her family, steam escaped her lips as she let out a sigh.

When she agreed to make the nine-hour drive from Melbourne to Sydney, she thought she would just be spending time with her family.

Yet somewhere between the first and ninth hour of the drive, the thought did occur to her: Mum is going to make me go to Christmas Mass.

It was, after all, her mother’s tradition. Family, even. Rachel’s mother and father were raised Catholic and so raised their three children, Rachel, Louise and May, in their image.

The thing about growing up Catholic though, you merge with the thoughts of the world. You develop a mind of your own. You start to wonder about how and why and why not and before long, you’re agnostic.

Rachel never wanted to go to Mass. She wanted to just soak in the hot tub and read and not even think about Jesus Christ or our sins.

But when she ran the idea by her mum, and when her mum said, with a roll of the eye – something none too subtle and obviously meant to be taken to heart by Rachel – that she was an adult and can do her own thing, Rachel know then that she was trapped. Her mum – excellent at the guilt trip.

 

So Rachel donned the least offensive thing in her wardrobe, something that wasn’t a dress with zombies on it or skeletons or her beloved Pacman dress. She donned a simple black dress, elegant and tasteful. It ran to her knees, didn’t show any leg or breasts or anything the churchgoers or Jesus might find offensive. She even wore tasteful panties without really knowing why she bothered to wear tasteful panties in the first place.

Does God find Poison Ivy and Batgirl panties bad taste? What about Tinkerbell? She does look like a harlot..

Whatever God’s tastes were, Rachel and her family walked into the church in complete silence.

 

It would be odd to say that the church is an ancient thing, considering most are, but it is – it has sat on the corner of the Western Suburbs of Sydney since 1989, when she was a small child. She had her communion here, she was baptised here, and the same old priest that took her confession after she was caught masturbating in the toilets by Miss Fletcher in grade six was still tending to the local flock at the ripe age of 400.

 

Save for a few rows at the front of the hall, the church was unusually empty this Christmas Eve. The times that Rachel had been, the church stalls were packed to the brim and people who came too late to grab a seat stood in lines with their backs against the walls.

 

Rachel found herself supressing a smirk. Everyone had the same idea it seems, thought she, as she followed her Mum into the Church stall.

Thin padded cushions lined the Church stall seats, though it should be said that that didn’t really help at all. Rachel could feel the wood beneath her, rubbing her boylegs into the curves of her ass.

“Jesus” Rachel whispered as she swung her knees to the right to reposition herself.

It was only when she had grown comfortable again that she noticed her mum, sitting across from May, glaring across the stall at her. She heard me blaspheme, Rachel said, I know she did.

 

Her mother didn’t pass on a message back to Rachel; however, she merely glanced coldly at her.

What more does she want, thought Rachel, I am here instead of listening to the crickets and relaxing.

Then the Mass began and Grandfather Priest waddled to the centre of the altar looking like Death itself. He already had the skeletal outline, thin wisps of facial hair on his chin and looked fragile. All he needed was a scythe.

His voice sounded more fragile than he looked, like somebody at the end of his rope, as he struggled to get out the greeting.

Rachel felt cruel to snicker, but the snicker came all the same to her.

That was when her mother leant across May to tap her on her shoulder.

“Honestly, Rachel, you’re 19. Act like it.”

Rachel thought she was.

 

The last Christmas Eve Mass Rachel attended, she was 17. Still in secondary college – or High School. Back then, living under her parent’s roof, she had to. But now, living out of home, finding her own way in life, even if that was working at the local cinema, she didn’t have to sit through the mind-numbing event. She didn’t have to feel bad yawning during prayer.

Something tickled her ankle and Rachel flinched, to the surprise of her family squished around her.

Rachel caught the eye of her mother – cold as ice – and ignored trying to figure out just what those eyes were saying. Something had brushed past her leg.

I did, came a voice. Smooth. Gentle.

Rachel could hear it but not see it. She turned around to see if her family had seen – but their eyes were forward listening to Father Death.

Down here.

Rachel looked down and saw two golden eyes the size of pebbles and barely visible in the darkness of the space underneath.

Don’t scream.

The serpent coiled into the light, wrapping itself around Rachel’s leg and squeezing gently.

Rachel, it hissed. O Rachel, your mind is running, sweet child.

Rachel looked to her family, who didn’t notice her. Even her mother was looking forwards, eyes serene.

 

The pale green snake reached her knee, its golden eyes watching her closely.

Rachel felt hypnotised by its gaze, as if she was falling into a dream.

That was it, she thought, I am asleep. I had fallen asleep during prayer.

Doubtful.

The snake’s voice was in her head, its voice oddly calming.

It slithered under her dress. She could feel its oily skin against her bare thigh.

In all the worlds, in all of rhyme, spin and seek and fear the chime.

Rachel could feel the snake slither across her cunt, could feel the tickle of its body against her skin.

In all of the worlds, each one is the same, you see. And you, O Rachel, are the same in all of the worlds.

Rachel tried to speak but all that came out was a whimper through trembling lips.

She felt violated as the snake began to slither up her stomach, next stop – breasts.

Rachel went to stand up, but the snake hissed beneath her dress. She could see it move in a wave, zigzagging across her chest, which tightened with every chest.

Do not move.

Rachel wanted to ask why her, but the words never came. If she moved quickly enough, she could grip the snake from her body and squeeze it till it popped, but would it bite her first? And why could no one see this happening?

Her family rose and repeated the prayer that Father Death had spilled from his elderly lips. No one seemed to mind that Rachel did not move, not even her mother, whose face no longer registered cold.

Rachel felt the snake move across the curves of her breasts and let out a whimper, it sounded deep and unlike her. The sound frightened her more so.

When the snake coiled itself out the top of her dress and around Rachel’s neck, Rachel was shaking like a leaf. The sudden urge to urinate hit her then, and she struggled to keep it back.

 

She could feel the snake move behind her neck, brushing her auburn hair as it slinked its way across her left shoulder to in front of her face, where it watched her with those haunting golden eyes.

For fifteen agonizing seconds, the snake gazed at Rachel and Rachel gazed at the snake, all of a sudden feeling that summer heat on her neck and cheeks.

The pale snake then slithered back around her neck and feeling its absence, Rachel turned to see it slither into the next Church stall and away from view.

Rachel went to let out a cry, to let out a sob. All that came out was air.

 

A gust of wind struck her fiercely, knocking her head back against the Church stall seats hard, sending pain running through her entire her body.

Though the pain soon subsided, leaving through the tips of her toes, a gentle breeze remained, running against her back.

Rachel looked down and saw her own nude body. Horror washed over her, warm and unrelenting. Panic gripped her throat as she tried to scream.

Not one soul in the church looked at her, all eyes were forward.

The breeze was all around her now, on the tips of her nipples, at her bare shaven cunt. It slithered, just like the pale snake, across her arms and down her legs.

Rachel looked forward to see that Father Death’s gaze was directly upon her.

Rachel realised he had just finished his sentence, as faces began to turn to look at her in all directions.

Even her family looked back at her, eyes warm and accepting.

Rachel looked from her family to Father Death, her words catching in her throat. She choked on their sounds.

Father Death extended one skeletal and withered hand in the air and that’s when the churchgoers rose again.

An altar girl appeared from a doorway on the altar. She was a thin, Hispanic woman. Lines of red paint were smeared vertically across her breasts, as if painted hurriedly.

 

That’s when Rachel realised Father Death was pointing towards her. No, at her.

The altar girl turned to look and found Rachel. Even from here, Rachel could see she did not smile; she merely stepped out across the way towards her.

“Well, go on” Said Rachel’s mother, but Rachel just stood there frozen in silent horror, unable to process what was happening.

The altar woman made her way to Rachel, stopping on the outside of the church seats. She kneeled, her breasts swaying before Rachel’s face as she leant down.

Rachel found her sharp brown eyes and slender face beautiful.

When Rachel’s mother gently shoved her, the Hispanic woman rose to catch Rachel in her arms so she did not fall. Rachel found her face nestled in the woman’s small breasts, smelling the strong smell of paint.

 

In complete silence, as the church hymn Silent Night was sung by the churchgoers, Rachel was led to the front of altar. Goosebumps formed across her arms and her hard frozen nipples ached.

Behind her, the churchgoers began to form in a single line, their head bowed quietly as they sang to themselves.

Rachel wanted to scream at them, for someone to help. But nothing came out except tears from her eyes.

When she reached Father Death, she recoiled from him. Up close he reeked of wine and sweat, even with his head bowed down as he himself sang.

The Hispanic altar girl turned to face Rachel now, and Rachel saw that in one hand she had a small bucket and in the other hand a paintbrush. She moved towards her.

“No,” Father Death said gently. “After.”

The Hispanic woman bowed and placed the items back on the altar. Rachel watched all this with a mix of horror and fascination.

“Eyes forward, Child. You have been touched”

Before Rachel could speak or ask why, the Hispanic woman, who now stood besides her, singing quietly to herself, turned her head forward.

 

The line of churchgoers had become two. The line to Rachel’s left lead to the Hispanic woman, whose pale arms rested behind her buttocks.

Rachel watched as the first person in the line to the Hispanic woman, a woman that looked to be in her thirties, knelt before her.

“The body of Christ” said the Hispanic woman.

“Amen” replied the woman, her eyes large and eager.

When the woman inched forward and lowered herself on the Hispanic woman’s cunt, suckling gently, Rachel’s arms and legs fell limp. The anxiety that was bubbling in her stomach drove its way up her throat.

She finally found the strength within herself to scream before something struck her from behind and then she only knew darkness.

 

Rachel woke to a start, gasping, catching glances from her family around her.

When the priest said ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord’, Rachel was the first to rise from where she stood and the first to leave the church.

 

Rachel sat on the edge of her bed, her hair strewn across her face, hands between her legs, fingers dripping with her excitement. She held in her gasps as she furiously drove herself to orgasm.

Behind her, coiling along her bed, the pale snake hissed and spoke aloud you are lost within a dream, child.

 

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