Abigail's Awakening Pt. 01

Abigail woke up thanking God she was still a virgin. She was a good Roman Catholic lady, aged 18, and she intended to save herself for marriage.

She had never even masturbated, never given herself a sideways glance.

But in her dreams, classic whore. A young man approached her, cuddled and kissed her, dropped his drawers, and there she was: she went straight for the boner. Went at it like it was ice cream. When she found the gooey center, drank it like water.

She was wet down there when she woke up this Monday morning, 8am. But she didn't touch herself, or even really notice the throbbing drip from her virginal pussy. She wasn't with herself like that.

She went to work at the local Christian bookstore, selling people crosses and Bibles and other such books and sundries. Jesus was on her mind, in the most wholesome way possible, she prayed during her breaks, and the dreams that she had at night didn't haunt her during the day.

"Hi. I'm Booya. At least that's what my friends call me. Hey, aren't you a little young to be working at a place like this? How old are you?"

"I'm 18" she responded, without knowing why she had let this black-died-hair fast talking young male, with the skinny frame, and the dark apparel, make her business his business.

"Oh good, me too. Well, actually I'm 20, but close enough.". He held out his hand to shake hers. "Real name's Jack."

"Abby," she said. "Nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine. Hey, if Jack was on the roof, would you help Jack jack off?". he asked, reciting an old children's rhyme.

"Don't talk to me like that," she said..."You're gross."

"Hey hey hey. Loosen up, ladybird. I was only making a joke."

"I don't like dirty jokes. Sorry, but that's who I am."

"And I can respect that. No more Jack jokes. Got it. Well, hey, now that we got that outta the way, and before we get too comfortable and start farting on each other, maybe you would let me buy you a coffee, and make it up to you for the improper introduction."

"I'd love to, Jack. But sometime tells me right off, this isn't going to work. So let's just leave it at that."

"Your loss."

"Is there anything I can help you find, while you're here in my store?"

"Oh, you're the owner of the store. That's hot. She's pretty and successful."

"Stop being facetious. Keep shopping, or I'll call security and tell them you're harassing me."

"Okay, okay. I was here to buy a crucifix necklace. I didn't know exactly what I want, but I know I'll know it if I see it."

"So you are a Christian? No offense, but I couldn't tell by looking at you."

"A Christian Witch," Jack corrected.

"What does that even mean?" she said, repulsed again. She wouldn't have been surprised if her had just told her he was a witch, but to connect her religion with witchiness, the ultimate evil, was too much for her to bear.

"It means I have a personal relationship with my Savior, Jesus Christ, but I also practice witchcraft. It's not so unusual, though no one else really does it."

"The Bible says, "Suffer not a witch to live.""

"Yeah, but the Bible was corrupted by those who handed it down. Jesus would've broken bread with witches. I'm sure of it."

"Anyway, you're delusional, but you're still a paying customer, right. Here's our crosses, with chains."

It was uncanny the way he was drawn right away and completely to Abigail's favorite cross, a simple flat gold crucifix with floral designs on its surface. She was wearing that very one right then. She didn't admit it to him, merely sold him the cross that she loved so much, and let him leave so she could forget he ever existed.

Later that day, an hour before her shift ended at 3pm, a local deacon came by to visit and peruse the store. He came by this time most days that Abigail worked, if not all, and he was one of her favorite customers.

They talked about Jesus, the Gospel, and the saints. She loved the way he told the story of St. Francis of Assissi as he left civilisation behind, went walking barefoot into the Italian countryside, singing to the birds and talking to the Spirit in everything.

She asked him all kinds of questions about his wife, a schoolteacher, and his son, who was only four years older than she. In her private thoughts, she entertained marrying Deacon John's son, if he wasn't a hideous orc or, in general, a wayward seed.

It sounded like he was a down-to-earth young man with a vibrant relationship with his Creator and a love for working on cars, which he did for a living. She wasn't overly impressed by the car thing, but she did recognize the necessity of a good mechanic.

Then there was a pause in the conversation, and while he was browsing rosaries, and she was looking on from behind the counter, waiting for their conversation to resume, he changed his voice into something contrived and said, "You look mighty fine in those jeans, girl."

"What did you say?"

The fifty-five year-old Deacon looked at her with a combination of disappointment and apprehension. "I'm sorry. We always hit it off so nicely, I just thought..."

"You did not! Old man! And here I thought you were in God's good graces. I'm certain now you're an impostor."

"I made a mistake. When I come back tomorrow, I hope things can still be normal."

"And I hope you don't come back tomorrow. You're a disgrace to the Church."

"The Church needs to leave room for our desires too. Someday you'll learn that, honey."

"The only thing I'm gonna learn from you is not to trust any man. You seemed like such a good guy."

"And I made a mistake."

"Please leave now."

He left and left Abigail to her thoughts and tumultuous emotional terrain. There was no place in her for understanding or empathizing with an act like that. He was twice her age, and sick for thinking he might have a chance. She fumed for an hour, unable to believe that Deacon John had perved out on her. His name tasted sour in her mouth.

Abigail shed a few tears as she clocked out. What a day! If she had believed in karma, she would've thought the world was paying her back for something. But she believed in God's grace in a fallen world. That fallen world had just reared its ugly head.

The rest of the summer day went by pleasantly, like a wholesome dream. She went swimming in her parents' backyard pool, wearing a modest one-piece that thankfully never turned the boys' heads when she went to the beach. Then she studied the Bible, reading from Paul's Epistles. She made dinner for the family, spaghetti with meatballs, ate with them, retired to her room to pray.

She prayed for Jack and for Deacon John first. That was just the way she was, praying for healing for the people who wronged her. She prayed that Jack's eyes would be opened, the way Saul's were on the road to Damascus. She prayed that Deacon John would repent, confess his filthy ways, and do better in the service of his community next time. She forgave them in her heart, but in her mind, she hoped she'd never see them again.

That night she dreamed that two men, one young and one old, came to her house. They wandered the halls of a house that was like the one she lived in in real life, but it had many more rooms on both levels, and they wandered, apparently looking for something. Both men had the look of the devil in his eyes. Their looks promised something she really longed for.

They found a white room near the back of the back hall, and inside it was a giant bed, and lining both walls, were growing beds of roses, red roses to the left, and white roses to the right.

The old man plucked a red rose and held it out to her, his palm thorn-pricked and slightly bleeding. She accepted the rose, kissed him on the cheek. The young man plucked a white rose and handed it to her. She accepted it, gave him a kiss on the opposite cheek.

When she turned back, the old man had something else in his hand, was trying to pass it off to her. It was his big, bold erection. Its one eye staring up at her. She took it in her hand, but not knowing what to do with it, just held on tight, felt the blood pumping therein. Blood of Christ, she thought. No, she thought. Blood of cock.

A voice in her head said, "Same thing."

The young man was trying to get her attention. He too held out his penis to her. She took it in her other hand, squeezed it tight.

She said the words, but it felt like they came from outside herself: "Rinse me in your Holy Waters."

Then she released her grips on their cocks and knelt down. She prayed violently, while they each masturbated wildly over her, the old man and the young man coming simultaneously, and covering her in a slick mess of semen. She woke up to the thought of her licking her fingers clean and felt the need to shower right away.

She had breakfast with her Mom and Dad.

"So, how's work been?" Dad asked.

"Yes, tell me stories, sweetheart," Mom said.

"Nothing special to report. I like work, but it's pretty uneventful."

"What about that sweet old man? What was his name? The Deacon? Have you seen him lately?"

Abigail didn't have the heart to spill her guts on that one, so she let it slide. "Nope, not lately. He must be busy with his family vocation, and church stuff."

"No time to visit his young friend Abigail and enlighten her with his wisdom? Sad," her mom said.

"It's okay, Mom. Maybe I should try making more friends my own age, anyway."

"Nonsense. You're so good with the elderly population. Maybe you should work at a nursing home. I hear St. Benedict's might be hiring."

"I think I'm happy where I'm at," she said, repulsed by the idea of a hundred old men perving on her in a day. She looked at her dad and wondered, did he have the perv in him too? Before yesterday, she never would've imagined such a thing. But her encounter with Deacon John had shaken her to her core.

She wore loose pants to work today and showed up five minutes early, like every day. She took her station and took a breath, hoping she was ready for what the day would bring and that God would not give her more than she could handle.

Last night's dreams were so far away, but the truth has a way of rearing its ugly head.

TO BE CONTINUED