Approaching Heaven

Now it was my turn to smile, though perhaps a little too soon.

She said: "But I believe the church that proceeded Him has corrupted the truth of his message in order to solidify its own power on Earth, and sought to keep the whole truth about Him from His people."

I raised an eyebrow. I'd heard atheists in my time denouncing religion, agnostics talking about evolution and science, theorising that such notions proved that God did not exist. I had not heard this argument, however. I remained silent.

"I believe Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene," she said, "and that the Romans crucified Him because he was of Royal blood – as was Mary Magdalene – and they feared he would claim his kingdom. But I believe that the church covered up both of those facts – the first to kill off the possibility of Mary Magdalene starting a rival church, slandering her as an ex-prostitute in the process - the second to ingratiate itself with the Romans."

I was a little stunned. Jesus, married to Mary Magdalene, the prostitute? How had she come up with that? She was mad.

She went on: "You know that the Roman Catholic church killed millions of women because they feared intelligent women would bring back stories about the holy Mary Magdalene, revealing the church's lies?"

"What?" I said, what could I say?

"They were burned as witches – any woman with any real intelligence. The female holocaust perpetrated by the Roman Catholic church was as bad as any in the Second World War. It just took longer."

I listened to her, and it appeared to me that she knew what she was talking about. How could she have made this up? But equally, how could such a massive cover-up have been carried out by the church over all the centuries? It didn't seem possible.

"And of course," she was saying, "because they didn't want men getting too close to women, they made up all this crap about sex being wrong, dirty, evil, a sin. Before they came along, sex was held to be precious, sacred, the orgasm the closest thing to heaven on earth. A truly spiritual experience."

She went on: "But the Roman Church couldn't have it that people could get close to God without it. Its power was reliant on it being the sole vessel for its followers to reach heaven, to praise God. What power would it have if men and women could celebrate life by making love?"

I was blushing horribly. I think she noticed it. Inches away from me, how could she have failed to? I didn't want to believe her – everything I had ever grown up being told was being unlaced by her words. True, I wasn't a Roman Catholic, I was protestant, but as far as this ideology was concerned, they were alike.

"So what are you saying?" I demanded. I hated to be judgemental – though I was all too ready to sign on the dotted line for a dog collar and a parish, I had always hated that my father never listened to anyone, was always in the right even when he was wrong. I had often silently pledged not to be like that. But here, I was flabbergasted. I said: "You're saying we all ought to be rutting in the streets?"

"No," she said, and I honestly felt some strange disappointment at that answer! Half of me was crying out to be rutting in the street with Holly. Oh God, but the temptation was so hard!

She explained: "I didn't say that sex should be in any way cheapened – it's a really special thing. What I mean is that it shouldn't be seen as wrong. It is a pleasure, after all."

The way she was looking at me then, her eyes flicking down occasionally to my lips, as though she was planning her attack, the way she was looking at me with desire in her eyes finally made me realise Dan's words had been true.

I suddenly twigged. I clearly wasn't all that bright, but hey.

"I'm just saying that all our ideas about sex are prejudiced by the Church's propaganda campaign. The guilt, the shame, the moral inferiority. Think about it this way: why would God make it a pleasure if it was so wrong?" she said.

"Because we do have to reproduce to keep the population going," I replied.

"But if we have to reproduce, why does God create our reproduction system in such a way that it gives us this so-called guilty pleasure? Why not make it something simple that we can do a few times in our lives and not worry about it?"

"He needs to give us incentive," I said, not quite sure where my argument was going.

"Why would he make it a sin, though?" she asked. "Even in marriage, it's seen as something that's unclean – especially when not in the missionary position."

I had no idea what the missionary position is, but sue me.

"Why does God want to make us sin?" she demanded. "He's a God of love, Jesus said, not a prankster."

It made sense.

"But you're saying we shouldn't be rutting in the streets," I said, realising this was all getting a little heavy. It made her smile, which was something worth unlimited effort.

"It is raining," she said with a grin.

Then she leaned forward and kissed me, and fireworks were going off all over the place. It was so incredible, so powerful, the softness of her lips, the sweet scent that filled my lungs, the warmth of her touch and the sweetness of it all.

I never wanted it to end, it was the most incredible experience I'd ever had up until that point. My cock was so hard under the table, I was worried I was going to hurt myself here.

Oh. My. Goodness.

"Wasn't that nice?" she said when we finally parted, and I realised that I had been essentially kissing her back as well – I had fully succumbed to temptation.

I was speechless. She said: "Now how could something like that be wrong? Why would something that feels so good be evil?"

My goodness, was she making sense.

"You're a really good kisser," she said, all smiles and so heart-stoppingly beautiful. "Are you sure you were at a boys' school since you were seven?"

I took another sip of beer – so suddenly sour after the taste of her lips.

"I..." I said, completely swept off my feet, "I...I have to get home. I have a lecture at nine in the morning."

"Nine o'clock!" she smiled, though there was a hint of disappointment there, I think. "Even your degree course is about suffering!"

Kelly's so different from Holly: absolutely no care in the world about spirituality or religion. She knows what I think – I've told her, though I don't preach – and sometimes she teases me about it, as I mentioned before. .

But I don't worry: I'm not one who believes you should force others to listen to your beliefs. Either they're interested, or they're not.

Kelly is the type of girl who lives for the day, who wants pleasures now, doesn't want to commit, doesn't want to pause long enough for worries like who created the world, and where do we go when we die. She wants maximum pleasure now, and that is why she keeps coming back.

And while she's here, she certainly makes the most of it – she has more energy than any of the other girls I see from time to time. By the time the other girls happily drift off to sleep in my arms, Kelly likes us to soak in my bath, she gives me a show while she cleans off, though she ties up her long golden hair since it takes a while to dry.

Then we begin again, and I soon find myself exactly where she wants me again, nuzzling into her sensitive little pussy, swirling my tongue around her clit, sliding it between her slippery folds and lapping up her copious juices.

Kelly's not so interested in getting close to a spiritual heaven, but she's very keen on getting close to physical heaven. At least as the night progresses, she's less urgent about it, I can take a little more time, making the most of the experience, enjoying her scent, her taste, the cute noises she makes as the sensations sweep through her petite frame.

She doesn't refer to the reasons why I care enough to give her so much pleasure, she just enjoys it. I don't mind – I enjoy it, too. She's a sweet girl, I like to give her pleasure, and there's a lot of pleasure on my part, too.

Not everyone is spiritual. That's their business.

Holly was a different matter – is a different matter. She is – and was – interested in what I think.

Thankfully, she didn't hold that first rejection against me, though I was petrified during that night that she would. Lying in my bed that night after my first ever kiss, half of me felt dreadful that I'd effectively turned her down. Half of me – the smug religious part – was smugly proud I'd resisted. But wasn't pride a sin, too? Could I ever win?

But what I could say for certain was that my faith had been rocked – as much by her kiss as her words. My beliefs had begun to tumble down, and goodness how I wanted them too! I wanted to be with Holly, lying close with her, breathing her in, kissing her like I had before, only all night long.

My penis was like a pillar of stone – very hard to get to sleep like that. Somehow I managed. Even though the feelings running through me were so strong – horror at my lack of resolve against the temptation, wonder at the experience of kissing her, surprise at what she had said about the church, even a little revulsion against the church – the first seed of doubt growing within me. And I was also hopeful that I could kiss her again, though this was countered by concern that my wish to go home might be interpreted by her as once-and-for-all rejection.

There was no sign of her at the cafeteria for breakfast, though I knew her first lecture was at eleven. Some of the others were there, though, and I sat with them, smiled and chatted as though nothing had gone on last night. Dan wasn't there, thankfully, for I feared he might know more than the others. But my normalness was put on. Under the surface, a million butterflies of pure uncertainty were fluttering around my insides.

My lecture was fairly interesting, but I couldn't stop thinking about the things Holly had told me the previous evening. And I certainly couldn't stop thinking about the kiss.

Our lecture timetable was sorted out, our first essay set, and the workings of the university library explained.

But we were in the first year of a three-year course, and as soon as the doors opened, it was only me that headed off to the library. The others weren't interested in studying right now! But neither was I – or at least, not what was on the syllabus.

I headed to the library and started to search for information about Mary Magdalene and her relationship with Jesus. Information that delved behind the scenes of the New Testament, information that looked at the development of the early Christian church.

And a good amount of recent research seemed to uphold the things that Holly had told me shortly before that undeniably wondrous union of male and female that she had shared with me.

It was fascinating stuff, and surprisingly I found that nothing I read in any way diminished the feelings I had for Jesus. If anything, it made me appreciate Him more, it made me understand a little more the pain He went through on our behalf. It made me love Him more to learn that He was one of us, a human being, and it was likely that he felt real love for Mary Magdalene, a special person in her own right.

I came across analysis of the Dead Sea Scrolls, books on the lost gospels, the gospels written about Jesus that hadn't made it into the 'official' New Testament, as decided by the Roman Catholic church. I learned of the Roman Emperor Constantine, who had chosen what the Christian Bible should contain. Missing out material that did not support the Roman Catholic Church as the sole vessel for Christ's message. Slandering those that wrote anything that might undermine the Church's power, calling Mary Magdalene a whore, Thomas the "doubter".

Perhaps my desire for Holly did direct my research a little more towards the anti-Church point of view. And Holly the historian would often tell me of the importance of taking in both points of view in seeking out the facts. But she often told me that history was written by the victors, and in Christianity, the victor was undeniably the powerful, rich Roman Catholic Church.

It was eight in the evening when I even paused long enough to realise it was getting late. I had even forgotten to eat all day.

On my way back to my halls of residence, I was so thrilled, though. Thrilled to know that there was more to learn about my religion, thrilled at the possibilities it presented me. Having spent all those hours carrying out initial research, I was surprised how well informed Holly was. And now I felt I had something to go on in believing her.

And I felt that it was perhaps time for me to break out of the stiff conservative mould my parents had created. Call it teenage religion, but I was suddenly willing and even craving to learn from Holly. To learn the special nature of sex, if she was willing to teach me.

But on my way back to halls, there was a heavy note of dread in my heart – what if she had taken my rejection badly? What if I knocked on her door, and when she answered it there was a naked man in her arms? I was horrified.

Knocking on her door, my heart was understandably in my throat. Nothing. She wasn't there. My mind was instantly constructing explanations: she was in Dan's room, cavorting with him, even though he knew nothing about her beliefs.

No one in Dan's room. Someone in the corridor – poor lanky Simon, never destined for success – on his way back from the pub. "They're all still in there," he said, filling my heart with hope. I didn't ask if Holly was there.

Still too nervous.

Naturally, I went to the pub, hoping, desperate for her now. What if she rejected me now, as some kind of revenge? I tried not to think such things.

The pub was crowded, loads of students having a drink after their first day in university. Even after just a week or so, I noticed certain cliques were beginning to form, as of course they inevitably would.

And there she was, in the middle of the kind of people I would have expected her to be. Stunning. The pure sight of her stopped my heart from beating for a moment.

"Jay!" she called, rising from the low couch with drink in hand, already more than a little inebriated – well, it was half eight by now. "Where were you? I knocked on your door!"

"I was..." I said, I had so much I wanted to tell her. "I was in the library."

"My God, that's keen!" she said coming up to me, and slung her arms around my neck rather surprisingly, and rather drunkenly.

"I was looking up what you told me last night," I said..

"Oh, that's so sweet!" she grinned, looking into my eyes with clear desire still in her eyes – such a thrill for me to behold. "And what did you find?"

"I..." I didn't know what to say. "I suppose I believe you," I said. "So far, at least. It makes sense. Checks out."

For a moment, I was unsure how she would react. She could tell me it was all crap, she'd been having me on. Slap me in the face and publicly humiliate me.

But instead, she said quietly: "I've got a lot more to show you, you know." With a flash of her eyes, sending sparks through my nervous system.

"I want you to show me everything," I said just as quietly, as if anyone else could hear.

She grinned, then leaned forward and kissed me. Wolf whistles from the others, but she didn't care, I didn't care. We smiled and acknowledged their amusement, but then left the pub early, hand in hand.

I was trembling on the way home, uncertain what was about to occur. Holly did most of the chit-chat on the way back, perhaps sensing my trepidation.

Back in her room, we lay on her bed and for a long while, just kissed. It was incredible to me, exploring each other's mouth, tongues tangling, lips locked, soft like silk. I was a fast learner, it seemed, although she was a good teacher. Patient, too. We took hours over every move, it seemed.

I simply did not know what I was allowed to do, we just kissed for hours, rolling around on the bed, but it wasn't until she first put her hand on my hard cock – through my trousers – that I felt I had the right to touch her breasts.

She moaned as I first touched her breasts through her shirt, and I guessed that I had her permission. She continued to stroke my cock through the thick material of my trousers, and slowly I built up enough courage to slip my hands under her shirt. Moving so slowly, leaving her time to stop me, tell me I was going to far.

Looking back, of course I see now she wouldn't have stopped me if I'd torn off her clothes and ravished her like a Viking. But I liked the way the first time happened, it was right.

But perhaps it was unusual: the first time didn't happen in one night. It actually took a week for me to get confident about touching her breasts, another week before I felt certain I was allowed to remove her trousers, a full month before I actually lost my cherry. It wasn't her – she would never have objected. It was me, just being overly-cautious. I think she liked the slow pace of our exploration, though. It was wonderful – really exploring each other, inch by inch, every now and then taking a fresh step, taking the risk of going a little further.

And I liked it that way – I am still glad it happened that way. Every night, and frequently during the day, we moved a little further. Knowing the boundaries we had already reached, I felt safe getting there again each time. We'd go over what we'd done before, then push it forward a little more, never much, though there were some big steps along the way.

When my fingers first slipped under her bra and felt the sensational softness of her bare breasts, the stiff buds of her aroused nipples, it was a powerful experience for me. When she first removed her top, revealed her pert breasts for my view for the first time, allowing me to kiss her there, take her hard nipples into my hot mouth for the first time – that was another big step along the way.

It was mostly me exploring her that took the time – she'd been with a guy before, after all, she hadn't been to a single-sex school like I had. But she allowed me to take the time, encouraged me with her appreciative moans and the lustful looks she gave me.

Sometimes I took the next step, sometimes she did, since I wasn't even sure what there was to do next. We were comfortable enough with each other naked from the waist up, even pressing my hard cock against her pussy through our clothes as we kissed. But for a while, I thought that was as far as it went. After all, we weren't married. Surely she could never show me anything more than that. But then while I was planting kisses all around her stomach, she pushed the boundaries further.

I wasn't expecting it, just kissing my way around her smooth, flat stomach, in wonderment at her soft skin, her stunning figure. I was kissing along just above her belt, detecting the slight trace of a new scent I had never encountered before, just under her vanilla perfume, a slight mustiness. While I was pausing to consider this, she reached down to unfasten her belt and pop the fly on her jeans.

My goodness, I suddenly realised she was going to slide off her jeans, my heart rate soared. Inch by inch, she revealed more of her heavenly body, her panties – blue and white checks, matching her bra that had already been removed – and those long, smooth legs.

The musty scent suddenly intensified, and I realised it had to be her arousal that was causing it. But what did I do now? Kissing my way around her thighs, playing it safe, her moaning more forceful the closer I got to her pussy. Her pussy, right there in front of me, covered only by a flimsy little pair of panties. It was so incredible, I was planting tiny kisses around the edges of her underwear, her scent so strong, so intoxicating. And she was letting me get so close – I could hardly believe it.