Trappe Mently

Always The Cult’s Bridesmaid, Never The Cult’s Bride

The first time I feel your touch, it’s as if heaven has graced me. My head is bowed. I am dressed in the robes of the lamb. I’m on my knees, in the church knave, praying.

You stand before me, and I feel your hand on my head. I’m so happy I begin to well up. Your touch only lasts a second before you move on, but in that moment, I know I’m closer to god. I feel divinity.

When you walk away, the deacons are on me. They grab my arms and pull me to my feet. I see you walking among the kneeling flock. I see you touch other women; two…three…four maidens. They are young and beautiful, like me, and the deacons seize them by the arms as well. They don’t need to. We would follow you through burning cinders. But as I take a step, I find my knees are shaking. The deacons keep me steady, and I’m grateful.

The flock continues to chant the Eternal Harmony. We lucky maidens are escorted out of the nave, through the chancel, and into a narrow hallway behind your holy altar. My breath catches when I realize the honor we are to be given. Two of the maidens swoon, nearly falling, when they see what lies ahead.

The deacons are taking us to your private sanctum.

The corridor to your sanctum is old, made of time-worn stone. Coal braziers burn on either side of your door, and we’re made to stand before the flames.

“Strip” We are told.

We do so. Willingly. Quickly. The deacons receive our clothes, our belongings, which are tossed onto the braziers. The heat washes over us as our earthly possessions are consumed, and the smiles on our faces are serene. At least, I am serene, until I see that Cathryn has arrived with the deacons…as the fifth maiden. And my smile withers.

Maidens are chosen for elegance, grace, and devotion. But I know Cathryn was chosen because it’s an affront to god to hide her body behind clothes. Her hair is swirled honey. Her curves are generous and sweet. Her gaze is sharp as she looks at us—the lesser maidens—and her smile becomes condescension.

The deacons bring four black veils to cover our faces, and one white veil, for the bride. Cathryn doesn’t act surprised when the deacons adorn her wrists, ankles, and neck with gold cord, and lower the short white veil over her face. Cathryn walks, pert, and proudly clad in firelight, to your door. And I fucking hate her.

When you open the sanctum, you’ve changed as well. You’ve abandoned your robes and you stand, breathtakingly naked, with the Elder Helm covering your face. The black marble visage of the first god contrasts with your taut muscles, your erect cock, and your hard eyes. You look like you’re ready to punish the unworthy. I quiver, imagining what form your punishments might take…

But tonight you have eyes only for Cathryn. Despite our collective feminine nakedness, your gaze never leaves her. I feel myself and the other maidens shrink, as you take Cathryn’s wrist, and lead us into the sanctum.

A massive bed with rosewood posts sits surrounded by candles. You take Cathryn and lay her on the bed, and she writhes, slowly, on silk sheets. We four maidens in our black veils stand, confused, until you point to us, indicating that we should kneel. When I hesitate, you grab the back of my neck roughly and force me down at the bedside.

You take my hands and press them together, then you hold my head down, and your cock is so close to my face I can feel its warmth. The other maidens kneel at the corners as well, and I’m a little girl again, praying at Father’s bedside.

You crawl across the bed and pull Cathryn, gasping, to her knees. Near the foot of the bed is an altar of stone with a velvet-covered book. You slap Cathryn’s ass so hard it makes the other maidens flinch, and Cathryn cries out. Then you press your palm to her back, forcing her down on all fours, which puts her face level with the book.

“Pray.” You tell us. And we begin the Eternal Harmony.

I mumble the chant until I hear Cathryn’s cries as you enter her. She is in instant ecstasy, bouncing as you plunge in and out of her, and I hate her. I hate that even with the mask, I can see how much you’re enjoying her body. I hate how powerful Cathryn looks, taking your cock in wild thrusts. I hate how pretty she is, pink and flushing. I even hate that I care so much; that Cathryn’s existence diminishes mine.

I watch through the dark veil as Cathryn bounces on your cock, pushing against you like a good bridal slut, and the candles begin to flicker and wink out. Around the bed, the circle darkens, and you slap Cathryn again, and again, turning her ass dark red in the shadows.

“The book,” You growl. “Open it.”

Cathryn, in rapture, reaches a shaking hand for the book. My voice falters, but the other maidens keep chanting.

A gust ripples the sheets and extinguishes candles. Shadows fall over the sanctum. Cathryn is pale and sweaty in the dying light, and you look like a marble carving of the First Man—your pelvis slapping against her ass.

Cathryn removes the black velvet from the book and opens the cover, leafing through it. She acts coy, running a manicured fingernail over the ancient script. She poses for you, looking back over her shoulder, grinning.

That’s when we see it. The dark forces. The arms of the elders. They reach from you, in the night, like ropes of shadow. Like writhing snakes protruding from your shoulders and back. Shades of black that slither around the bedposts, the headboard, and around Cathryn. We maidens see it through our veils, but Cathryn does not.

The shadow tentacles curl around Cathryn’s thighs, around her stomach, and between her breasts. The maidens have all stopped chanting. We are struck silent, witnessing a miracle, a curse, as the shadows envelope her.

When the darkness closes around her throat, she doesn’t choke. Not quite. Instead, she draws in a long, shuddering breath, her fingers and toes curl, and her eyes go wide. People refer to the air as nothing. But to breathe nothing, to fill your lungs with nothing, is truly horrifying.

You growl and bury yourself in Cathryn as she begins to thrash, hovering in the clutches of the shadows. Her eyes go white. Not rolling into the back of her head. They turn true white, as if the elder god has taken her sight. She claws at her face with her manicured nails, leaving long scratches that weep blood.

You huff and grunt behind the mask, and I can tell you’re close. Your hands dig into Cathryn’s hips. Your cock, hammering, makes her toned flesh bounce. She screams, and her horror is swallowed by the black void that has entangled her.

I hear your laughter, booming, as you spend your seed inside Cathryn, and her limbs begin to shudder.

I reach down with one hand, very slowly, and I finger myself, as I watch Cathryn being taken by forces dark and powerful and ancient.

***

It’s past midnight when we are driven home by the deacons. Cathryn is taken first to the hospital, but we all know where she’ll end up before the week is out…

Ivy Hills Crematorium is less than ten miles from the church. Sometimes, I think there’s providence in that. Or just prudent planning.

The deacons warn us not to speak about anything we’ve seen. We’re told to stay faithful. And to keep our bodies pure, and ready, for your touch. I don’t need to be told. I know exactly what, and who, my body is for. You’ll need a new bride, now that Cathryn is gone.

Over the course of a week, I visit with the three remaining maidens. They are giddy and frightened and elated and reverent in turns. They are torn between their attraction to your power, and their fear of the thing we saw reaching through you. I nod in agreement with them, and I humor their nattering. After our visits I leave each of them with a pledge; that no matter what happens, we’ll all stay friends. A pinkie-promise, like sisters, to remain devoted to each other.

I smile. I nod. I make promises. And every maiden suffers a terrible accident after our visit.

Every maiden…except me.

The deacons are furious when they pick me up on Sunday, but they aren’t surprised. Maiden Cynthia took a nasty spill on the stairs, which sent her to the hospital. Maiden Terry drank bad wine. Maiden Sara has gone missing, although her car is in the garage.

And that leaves me, your only bride, by the time Sunday services have ended.

Your sermon goes on for hours. You preach hellfire and damnation, eternities and infinities. You are powerful. Eloquent. Emotional. Evocative. I touch myself, frequently, throughout your sermon. I make sure you see it, too, and you lick your lips as the service comes to an end.

The deacons select new maidens from the flock. They are young, bright-eyed, and beautiful. They swoon when you touch their heads, and they are escorted by the deacons. I follow with a deacon at each elbow, but I move with purpose.

The new maidens are stripped before the sanctum, and the fire reveals their awe. I disrobe as I walk, and I toss my things on the crackling brazier. The deacons give the maidens their black veils. For me, I take the white, and gold cords are placed around my ankles, wrists, and neck.

I wait before your sanctum, naked, and eager, while the maidens titter behind me. I feel poised and polished until you open the door. When I see you, I am undone.

You are naked, save for the black marble mask, and an erection that looks like it could pierce plate aluminum. Your cock is so beautiful, so perfect, that I’m tempted to fall to my knees and worship it now. You see my gaze, my fixation, and you grin.

I hold my arm up, expecting you to take me by the wrist, but you don’t.

Instead, you walk around me. Inspecting me, and the other maidens, like a breeder inspecting livestock he might purchase. You linger on the new girls—getting close enough to sniff their hair, check the color of their eyes, and at one point, brush your cock across one of their asses.

Finally, you come to me. You stand in front of me, your erection aimed at my abdomen, and I see your eyes glimmer behind the mask. You sigh, loudly, and you make a show of seizing my wrist. You pull me along toward the four-posted bed, and I am smiling, despite my frustration.

You guide me to the bed where I’m to prostrate myself, and you instruct the maidens to kneel at the bedside and begin their prayers. Then you crawl over the silk to join me, and you find me laying on my belly, ankles crossed in the air, like a teenager on the telephone. I glance over my shoulder, and I watch you.

I am not smiling. I am not coy. This is not a game to me, like it was for Cathryn. She was given something that you are withholding, and this is my tiny, rebellious way of demanding the same treatment. The same…cruelty.

You register my little act of defiance, and you respond with the appropriate paternal instruction. You scoop me up, lay me across your lap, and you spank me like a petulant child.

Your night with Cathryn was special. You reached into the ancient, the forbidden, and part of that, I’m sure, hinged upon the pain you inflicted on her. Thus, I should be given the same pain before we start. Or so my logic holds. However, when you begin to strike me, I realize I may have been too free in my invitation.

You treat me like a child, but you don’t spank me like one.

Your hand is calloused and hard, and your arms are corded. Your first volly makes my ass glow red and brings tears to my eyes. The next ten drive the breath from me. I fall fully across your lap, and your erection presses hard into my belly.

I wriggle. I cry. I beg. I lose count after twenty slaps, so I start counting again in my head, and I lose track after another twenty. So much time passes, and you are so thorough in your beating, that my entire backside is hot, pulsing pain by the time you’re done. I’ve soaked your sheets in tears, and I have left your legs wet where I wriggled across your lap.

Just when I’m able to stifle my sobs, you haul me up on hands and knees, like Cathryn, and I feel the head of your cock resting between my cunt lips. That’s when you ask me;

“Are you ready, child?”

I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.

I think back on how wanton, how shameless, Cathryn acted when you took her. Her screams, her ecstasy…I thought it was an act.

When you enter me, and I feel myself stretching to accommodate you, I know it was no act.

It isn’t the bestial way you move. It isn’t the power you wield. Or the hardness of your body, or your cock.

It’s your spirit.

You thrust into me with an eagerness that speaks of joy and desperation. You take me, claim me, as one who is hanging from the cliff of mortality, and I am the fruit you pluck before you fall.

I’ve already screamed my voice hoarse during your spanking. Now my cries of lust are throaty, and I embarrass myself with little yelps as our flesh slaps together and I feel your cock filling me. I clench, and I wriggle, and I instinctively crawl away, but you pull me back. You always pull me back, like a compass coming to true. My legs begin to shake and my arms buckle, and you let me fall into the mattress, eyes and mouth wide, while you hold my hips and bury yourself in me.

Then you say the words that I’ve been imagining all week. The words I’ve obsessed over since I saw the shadows. But I’m so deep in my shameless lust, you have to repeat yourself before my mind can surface.

“The book.” You say. “Open it.”

I reach for the altar at the foot of the bed, and I peel back the black velvet. Underneath is a book of simple calf-skin binding, with uniform yellowed pages. I open the book to the inside cover, and I moan as I feel you slowing your pace. You’re close to coming. I can feel you’re close, and you’re breathing heavier than when you fucked Cathryn. That, more than anything, makes me smile as I look at the ancient pages.

The words are written in neat columns, but they are in no language that I recognize. Indeed, I don’t know that anyone on earth could recognize them. But they speak to me, nonetheless. As you fuck me, I see a story—the oldest story—shaping in my mind…in our minds. An interplay of light and dark. A dance of entropy and creation. The coupling of primal man and first woman. I see creation. I see pregnant eternity. And I feel the friction, and the war of power, within me right now. Within the pleasure, and the seed, of your vigorous fucking.

Unlike Cathryn, I see the shadows that emerge from you when the candles go dark. I see the shades of the god; the ancient one who derives its pleasure through you, as you take your pleasure from me.

Also unlike Cathryn, I embrace both man, and darkness.

I moan, and I wriggle, in the grip of those shadows. I spread my legs for them. I welcome them. I breathe it in, and the void fills my throat. I open myself, and they enter my every hole, lifting me high above the bed, weightless and twitching, as you plunge into me again and again.

I can’t breathe…can’t think. I am reduced to a vessel for your greed, and I shudder on the edge of blissful, orgasmic unconsciousness. You caress and squeeze and nibble my flesh, rapacious, and I hear you grunting as you approach the precipice. I am soft and warm and floating before you. And you unleash yourself into me, cumming, as I wriggle helpless on your cock, suspended by night given form…for your pleasure.

And that is when I lose myself. I cum, at the edge of sanity, desperate for air. I quake and shiver until I see stars. I shake and gasp until white pinpoints appear in my vision…except the stars never leave my eyes. They dance above the bed, as if my pleasure has summoned the cosmos above your sanctuary.

The roar in my head, and the fire in my loins, is slow to ebb. But ebb it does. And as you pull out of me, the darkness withdraws. Coils of shadow fall away from me, like unbound ropes, and they disappear, back into the doorway that is you.

You remove the black marble mask, and you look confused. Sated. Pleased. But confused.

“How?” You ask.

“I accept you, and I accept it.” I smile. “And it might have helped if any of your idiot brides bothered to read the first page.”