Blasphemy season is in full bloom right now. December first is the day that we start getting ready for Christmas, so what a better way to be bad. I have a sick story to tell you about. I fucking love it.
“Arianna, I need your help here. I have lost my way.”
My caller, a Catholic Priest confessed to me that he had felt different about the church in recent weeks. He found the sound of the church bells to be deafening. The scent of Frankincense nauseating. Each time he seen baby Jesus in the manger, he felt utter disgust. It was Christmas morning when he called me and yes, I could hear the bells from the church-going off.
“I need something to show me the way back home. Can you help me?”
No, but I can destroy you. Of course, I said that part in my head. My actions would speak for themselves. I asked about the Manger in the front of the church and if anyone was there.
“There is one Lass. No one has arrived yet this morning but the Sisters. They are all out though.”
Blasphemy at its finest happened next. I am going to hell.
“You sick little bitch. You’re the whore of the Devil, Arianna!”
Whispering in his ear to go to the front of the church, he would live his robe and jack off on baby Jesus. It was a fucking plastic doll. In utter disgust, he jacked off on the symbol of Jesus, rubbing the dripping head over the lips, and came. This Priest blew his load all over the head of the wee one. I wasn’t done though. I had him wash his dick in the stoup at the front of the church. Each person who came to church that morning would seal with his seed.
Blasphemy took on a new meaning that Christmas morning. I don’t think he ever recovered from our prayer session.