Spirit Ch. 01

The greatest trick of the Devil, it has been said, was to convince the world He didn't exist.

What He didn't realize, nor would He have cared, was that He cleared the way for the rest of us.

Churches are my favorite hunting ground. There was a time, not that long ago, a few hundred years, when the power of believers' faith kept me out. But here we are, in the 21st century, and I'm free to enter where I please.

As always after what you'd call a "sleep," I was ravenous.

That last mount had been particularly satisfying. How often do you find an anorexic woman and turn her into a glutton before leaving her in a motel room too fat to move without help, covered in chocolate and semen, crying and helpless to stop the hunger that consumed her?

Yeah, my Audry had been fun but I had needed to rest.

But now I was back.

And I was famished.

As always after a "sleep," I guess I'll use that word. I could try "hibernation" or "period of dormancy," or something else, but "sleep" is close enough for you.

I do wander, don't I? I get that way when I wake, to continue my sleep metaphor.

But I was starved and church beckoned.

Let me put this in terms I hope make sense.

I floated at 30,000 feet or so with the world spread out below me. I could, well, let's call it "see" although my senses have nothing to do with the visible light spectrum. I could, let's call it "smell" the aroma of a church. I, well, "transported" is a good word, to the source of the "smell."

Ahhhh, there it was. Call it the "scent" of, well, call it "sin."

Your language is SO limited, this is the best I can do.

I slipped in through her nose and immediately spread through her nervous system.

I was part of her now and heard her silly prayers. Not that there aren't spirits in the world, but the hubris of humans imagining we care about them, or more ridiculous yet, can be summoned by them was something that always made me, well, call it "laugh."

Human women can be so funny. If I had lungs I would have laughed as I listened to her pathetic prayer.

"Father," she was intoning silently and her belief was manifest, "I have sinned in my flesh."

The taste of her sorrow was ambrosia to me.

"I can't stop myself, Father," she went on, "Please, help me."

So I helped her.

I felt my way along her neural pathways until I could stimulate the erectile tissue of her areolas and nipples making them so hard I could feel the ache and trace the sensations up her nerves.

Ahhhhh, THERE it was. I fed greedily on her shame and humiliation.

"Father, please," she whimpered, on her knees in a pew, her eyes tightly shut, her hands clasped before her, "I can't help myself. Please, Lord, send me help."

So I helped her.

I found the dense ganglia of nerves that is her clitoris and carefully identified each of the millions of nerve endings that offer a woman pleasure.

"Please, Father," she repeated in her mind, my senses "hearing" her clearly, "I am weak and need your help."

On the word "help" I closed the gaps in those nerve endings. Her orgasm was immediate and powerful and I fed on her pleasure, with her humiliation a delicious dessert as she gasped and the crotch of her slacks was suddenly soaked.

"FATHER!" she said aloud, the word echoing in her mind and throughout my being. I fired those neurons again, this time matching the effort in her nipples and areolas.

She came again and I drank her humiliation like ambrosia.

"No, please, God, no," she was whispering in her mind as her hand moved under the waistband of her slacks to where she was swollen and sensitive.

I whispered, directly into her mind, wanting her to think I was the voice of her God, "Go ahead, Daughter."

She stopped moving and I felt her sudden tension.

"Father?" she asked silently.

"Yes, Daughter," I whispered, right at the threshold of audibility in her mind, "You do well. You give me pleasure with your pleasure," which was perfectly true. Over the years, well, the millennia, I found believers responded to formal language.

"Father?" she asked again.

"Do you want me to leave you?" I asked, allowing just the barest hint of anger into my voice.

"No, Father, please no," she said and I sipped at the desperation in her thoughts, sweet nectar to my hungry being.

I went still, not speaking in her tongue or adjusting her nervous system, waiting to see what she would do.

I laughed, well, I felt a wave of delight, what I suppose is what a human would call laughter, when I felt her fingers touch where she was desperate for touching. I lapped at the sensation between her legs, a delicate appetizer, but I drank deeply at the humiliation as her body exploded into another orgasm, this one not given by my manipulation.

No longer starving, I allowed her to relax. I sampled her wonder as she tried to sort out what had happened, while I rummaged through her memories learning what my new puppet was like.

And I liked what I found. She was 40 in human years, married, with a daughter 19 away in college, a son 18 still living at home, and a husband of 22 years who had lost interest. She wondered if he was having an affair.

Her name popped up, Susan, not that I cared, and like a rapid series of pictures, little vignettes really, I learned all I needed to know about her. I saw how she had carefully avoided sex until she got married and then had found it to be a chore rather than the delight it was supposed to be. I saw how she hated being pregnant but loved being a mother.

I saw her befriend another at a "Mommy and Me" group, the ridiculous name making me roll my eyes if I had had eyes and then being taught by another mother, while children played together in another room, the pleasure her body could give. But for Susan, the pleasure was always wrapped in shame and guilt.

Most important, given my own needs, was the way she masturbated frequently, finding it a purely physical release, and then crying in her mortification.

That would change.

I used her eyes to see the world as she got into her car and started driving.

She was still ashamed of how wet she was, of the darkness that ran between her legs and down her thighs, so I found those nerve endings and sent jolts of pleasure up her belly, adding to it, taking her breath and giving me a sweet sip of her ecstasy.

I laughed again as she swerved to avoid the car she almost sideswiped.

My immediate hunger was assuaged so I started rummaging through my new ride's mind to see what little delights I might find.

"Oh, you naughty thing you," I thought as I found the image of her sitting in what I assumed was her kitchen, her clothes in a pile, and something, I dug a little deeper into her memories and identified it as an Eggplant, allowing myself time for a little chuckle at the stupid word, before digging a little deeper into this particular fantasy.

I knew this was not something she had ever done, but that in her fantasy the pain of the huge purple fruit stretching her so much made amends for what she thought of as the depravity of her body's needs.

I let her see the image and whispered, "This would please me, my Daughter."

"Father," she said aloud, "please, no."

"I understand," I whispered, my soft voice dripping with as much sorrow as I could manage, "Goodbye then, Daughter."

I started breaking the links between us, giving her the sensation that I was withdrawing.

"Father, nooooooooo," she wailed, the sound loud in the car.

"I understand, Daughter, and I would never force you to do things you find abhorrent," I whispered, breaking a few million more links.

"Father, no, please, dear God, no, I'll do as you ask," she said aloud, the sharp little pain of her tear ducts a sweet treat and the sensation of her sinuses swelling and her nose running giving me a special delicacy.

"Oh, Dear Daughter, coercion is not my style," and I broke the remaining connections except for a single neuron.

"No, Father, NO, Please," she wailed.

I slowly reconnected, starting at her nipples and clitoris, linking my presence to her sexual gratification.

"Is it truly your wish, Daughter?" I whispered.

"YES," she cried, "Yes, yes, yes, Father, yes, please, please let me give you pleasure."

I filled her body with a pleasant warmth, what my experience told me she would interpret as love.

I was silent as I watched her pull into a parking lot, smiling at the silliness of humans. Piggly Wiggly. Who thought of such a name for a grocery store?

I had her look into the rearview and enjoyed her horror at her appearance. Her eyes were red, her nose was red and swollen, tears had streaked the mascara she wore and her nose was running freely, clear mucus running across her mouth, down her chin, and hanging in strings to wet her blouse.

I whispered, "Will you make me wait, Daughter," putting just a hint of anger into my voice.

"No, Father, of course not," she said softly and walked into the store.

I watched as she went to the produce aisle and sipped at her excitement as she trailed her fingers across the fruits and vegetables, lingering on an orange, caressing a cantaloupe, and then fondling the eggplants. The rush of warmth in her belly was honey to me as she lifted the big fruit to her lips and kissed it.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice oozing love, "that one."

I got another quick taste of sugar with a hint of cinnamon when she saw how the checkout girl was looking at her, the eyes moving from crotch to face and back.

"Are you okay?" the girl asked.

"Yes, dear," my ride responded, "I'm just fine." She giggled, maybe a little hysterically, and then took her little plastic bag and walked back to the car.

Her thoughts were delicious. She had surrendered to her hidden desires and I had no need to urge or guide although I did give her that image, plucked from her mind before, of sitting on the floor of the kitchen using both hands to push the eggplant in while she gasped and hissed her pleasure.

She was almost frantic in her need by the time she pulled into her garage. Her last few steps to the connecting door that led to her kitchen were almost at a run and she was already pulling at her belt and working on the button of her slacks as she laid the bag with its precious contents on the island.

I watched, sipping at her emotions, a heady brew of humiliation and excitement, of pure sexual arousal and utter embarrassment.

I liked it.

She tore the button loose as she frantically struggled to get the slacks off and then dropped them, sodden, so wet it seemed as if she had lost bladder control and tore her panties in her rush to get them off.

She took the eggplant from the bag and was making love to it, kissing it, her tongue licking slowly up its length, even as she leaned back against the refrigerator and slowly slid down until she sat on the floor with her legs apart. I could feel, deep in her belly, as her Skene's and Bartholin's glands were working, providing the natural lubricant of a human female and giving her a special tingling pleasure deep in her vagina. I sipped at that pleasure and understood why humans called it the Nectar of the Gods.

She pressed the big end of the eggplant to herself, to that center of any woman where the core of her femininity and very femaleness, and pushed.

It was too big, of course, but she wrapped her second hand around the small end and pushed harder. The pain of her stretching was spice to me and I drank it greedily.

"Oh, Daughter, you are so good, I bless you," I whispered into her mind.

"I can't," she said, "it won't go."

"Do not deny me, Dearest Daughter," I said.

"Oh, God," she moaned and pushed harder still.

"Yes, beloved, your God," I whispered, drinking deeply of her need.

The pain, as skin tore and the eggplant stretched her so completely was a delicacy so perfect that I was caught by surprise by what followed.

"Mom?" she heard and I heard through her ears.

I saw through her eyes as her son stared.

The explosion of pure humiliation and embarrassment was so great it almost drove me out.

Almost, but not quite.