Faith and Temptation: Chapter One

Allison squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head, willing her faith to be stronger than her desires. She knew her weakness, but there she knelt, beside the bed, hands clasped tight in prayer.

“Jesus, keep me pure,” she whispered, soft and desperate. The small, modest room surrounded her, the plain white of the walls and bedspread offering no distraction, but still she struggled to stay focused. Her mind drifted, beyond her control, to thoughts of rough, forceful hands grabbing at her incredible round ass, of her skirts hiked high, and her panties pulled low. A shameful gasp escaped her lips, and she reached up to touch the cross at her throat.

“Jesus,” she whispered again, “keep me pure.” Her prayer fought for space among sinful visions of her small, tight hole being violated, filled with something other than God’s love.

The modesty of the bedroom was supposed to keep her grounded. No ornate details on the furniture to tempt her into pride. No television to draw her attention from faith. Even the flowers on the nightstand were muted in color and scent, nothing showy or flamboyant. She had decorated it herself when she moved away from home, her first year out on her own. Every simple detail should have focused her on her pious life, on remaining steadfast in the eyes of the Lord.

But here she was, just like at home, full of sinful thoughts, kneeling on the plain wood floor beside her simple twin bed, desperately trying to avoid the shameful desires that made her feel so helpless, so weak, so unlike the pure, faithful Christian girl she longed to be.

She knew what she wanted, deep inside, even as she fought it with prayer. The images of those strong hands on her body filled her mind without any help at all, while she struggled to form each word of the Lord’s Prayer in her thoughts. The images played so vividly, almost real. She could practically feel the warmth and strength of those hands holding her still, forcing her small, pliant body to accept every groping, grabbing touch. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, opening her blue eyes and seeing the room around her. Even with no distractions, she was failing. She was falling so far away from God. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate.

As soon as she closed them, the sinful visions started again. The hands lifted the hem of her skirt, tugged down her modest white panties. She couldn’t keep her breath from catching at the thought, shame and longing rushing through her in equal measure. A soft moan slipped past her lips, barely audible, as she lost herself in the thoughts, the fantasy. It didn’t even matter whose hands they were, she thought.

All that mattered was that they took control of her body, left her no chance to escape. She wondered if maybe, just maybe, she should stop fighting it, stop pretending she could be the faithful girl everyone expected. No, she thought suddenly. I have to try. She was on her knees, wasn’t she? God would know that she was trying.

“Why can’t I be stronger?” she said out loud.

Her voice broke the silence around her, made her aware of how small the room was, how close she was to the bed and the prayer and the struggle and the temptation. Her body was already responding, her nipples hardening against the soft fabric of her simple white bra, a shiver running down her spine.

Her whole petite body was shaking, even though she stayed there, on her knees, fighting it. Why does it feel so good? Her internal voice sounded desperate, even to her own ears, a deep ache spreading through her as she struggled. She shifted on her knees, trying to resist her own body’s urges. She wouldn’t touch herself. Not yet.

God’s love was supposed to be enough for her, she thought. She remembered her mother telling her so. But it wasn’t, not anymore, not now that she was on her own, away from the watchful eyes and constant reminders of her religious family. She heard her mother’s voice, lecturing her on the dangers of sinful thoughts, how any sexual desire was slutty and sinful, dirty, unless she was married.

And even then, she remembered being told, even then it wasn’t supposed to be pleasurable, especially not for the woman. A wife was supposed to endure, not enjoy. Then why do I love this? She nearly cried out, caught up in the battle inside her.

Allison thought about how it must look, to God, her on her knees like this, full of desire while pretending to pray. He had to be able to see these thoughts, these sinful, shameful urges. How could she be so weak? Her breath was coming in short gasps as she struggled against the images in her mind.

She knew what her body wanted, she knew the pleasures it was built for, even as her faith told her they were wrong. She felt lightheaded with the guilt of it all, her flesh winning out over her religion. She reached up again to touch the small silver cross at her throat, her simple blonde ponytail swinging forward over her shoulder.

She hated the way her body seemed to take control. She hated the desire and longing that came over her at the slightest hint of attention. She hated the way her hips rocked slightly when a man looked at her with that greedy, hungry expression. But most of all, she hated how much pleasure it brought her.

“Jesus, keep me pure,” she whispered again, trying to focus on her prayer as the words were drowned out by sinful, invasive thoughts. Please, Jesus, please. She felt dizzy from wanting so much to be good, and from wanting so much to give in.

Her small frame didn’t stop men from looking at her. It never had, not since she was old enough to know what those looks meant. At least you have your petite figure to help you stay decent, she heard her mother say, a memory from so many years ago, But oh, that bottom of yours. Her incredible round ass drew attention no matter what she did, no matter how modest her dresses were. She couldn’t hide it, no matter how hard she tried. She knew, from the way they looked at her, what every man wanted from her. Every single one.

“Please, Jesus, help me fight this,” she whispered again.

The small room closed in around her, her traitorous body tingling as she stayed there, trembling and trying so hard to pray. She reached up and touched the cross at her throat again, then curled into herself, forehead against her clasped hands. The words of her prayers became more desperate, breathless.

“Keep me pure,” she whispered again, “please.” The sinful thoughts were everywhere, all around her, filling her even as she tried so hard to empty herself of them. “Keep me pure,” she whispered, feeling their grip on her body.

***

The stained glass glowed in bright, accusing colors. Allison remembered them well. She was 18 when it happened, alone after Sunday service, the sanctuary empty except for the usher. He came up from behind as she knelt in prayer. The long rows of wooden pews were silent, and so was she, when he grabbed her incredible round ass and squeezed.

“Look at you,” he had said. “You’re nothing but a tease, aren’t you?”

She was too shocked to speak, at first, as his hands found her. They had never let her be. They had never let her go.

She remembered that she had stayed after the service to pray for forgiveness. Her eyes had been closed in devotion, the altar stretching before her. She didn’t know he was there, the lean man in his suit. The silence was shattered by her startled gasp as he found her, hands grabbing, fingers probing, nothing but force and invasion.

She thought, for a moment, that God himself must be testing her, giving her the struggle she so feared and desired. She hated the flush of excitement that rose in her, how her body reacted as it did, as it always did, giving in even when she begged it to stop. Even the sanctuary, sacred and empty, couldn’t save her from the sinful urges, or from the strong hands that left her trembling with fear and unexpected need.

“Look at you,” he had said again, his fingers working into the soft flesh of her backside. “Kneeling there like a good girl.”

She wasn’t a good girl, she knew, not deep down. Maybe not ever. Not if this was what she loved. The usher had already gotten her weak, already brought out the shameful longing she tried so hard to keep hidden.

“I know what you want, Allison,” he said.

His grip was firm, sending thrills of pleasure through her despite how desperately she fought against them. “I can see it on your face,” he said, and she was terrified that he could. How could he not see the desire, when she could feel it burning, unholy and impossible to stop?

His hands moved faster than her thoughts. They pulled her up, turned her around, pushed her back down. She was suddenly on her stomach, draped over the back of the pew, her arms pinned under her. She remembered the hardness of the wood against her ribs, the sound of her own whimper echoing through the empty church. She didn’t dare call out, even if she wanted to. A slut like her didn’t need saving.

“You’re nothing but a tease, aren’t you?” he said again, his voice as strong as his grip. His rough, unforgiving touch held her in place as she gasped, too shocked to struggle, too shocked to speak.

It was happening so fast. The force of it, the urgency, made it impossible for her to protest, to say anything except the sinful desires that ran through her head, faster than the blood ran through her trembling, weak body.

“Every Sunday, tempting me,” the usher said, sounding angry, like he blamed her for how much he needed to fill her. “It’s like you’ve been begging for this.” His voice dropped low, a rough whisper against her ear. “You know you have.”

She felt the truth of it in her flesh, as much as she hated to admit it. His hands, still on her, moved her into place. “Don’t bother denying it,” he said, “you love being grabbed like this.”

He had her there, bent and trapped, her incredible round ass so shamefully exposed. He let go of her long enough to lift her skirt, push it up over her hips. Allison’s face burned with humiliation and guilty pleasure as she heard the material rustle, felt the air on her bare skin. She heard his breath quicken as he saw how wet she was already, and she remembered the shiver that ran through her at the sound. The thrill of fear. The heat of arousal.

“Please,” she said, more a moan than a cry for help.

She didn’t even know what she was asking for. Her desire fought with her shame, and she hated herself for the way she wanted him to keep going, keep going.

“You dirty girl,” he said. His words hurt her, but the pain was nothing compared to the grip he took on her panties, tugging them down, letting them hang around her thighs as she hung, helpless and pinned, over the hard wooden pew.

The pale flesh of her round ass was exposed, and it looked obscene, like she imagined a cheap whore would look, and that only made her body react more. His hand, free of any restraint now, pressed between her legs, hard fingers finding their way into her wet, guilty flesh. She gasped and shuddered at the shock of it, her sinful body growing slicker and needier with every rough touch, even as she tried to keep the desire at bay.

“You’re going to take this,” he said, pulling away from her just long enough to unbutton his pants. The anticipation was unbearable, as much as the pleasure and the pain. “Just relax,” he said, but she was shaking, almost crying, she needed it so badly.

Her hips moved of their own accord, eager to take what she hated herself for wanting, pushing back against him and drawing a breathy moan from his lips. He grabbed her by the waist, roughly, painfully, and she felt the thick, warm tip of him pushing against her. She tensed, instinctively, but the flood of shame and arousal only increased.

He moved too fast for her. He was inside her, all the way, his long, thick length forcing its way into her ass. The pain was so intense, at first, that she thought she might pass out. Her whimper was broken and needy. She felt him stretch her, fill her, all at once. He didn’t give her any chance to catch her breath, any time to adjust to the agony of being taken this way, with no warning.

His hands on her hips, his cock driving deep inside her, sending blinding flashes of pain through her that gave way to bursts of unbelievable pleasure. Her gasps of pain turned to moans of need as her whole body gave in. Her jaw went slack, her thoughts went blank, and there was only the sensation of him in her, using her, fucking her like she was made for it, like she needed it more than anything.

He grunted, thrusting deeper and faster, ignoring her choked whimper of surprise as her body went wild beneath him. “You’re a dirty girl,” he said, his voice rough and strained as he pounded into her tight hole. “You love this, don’t you?”

Her body told her that she did, even if her faith and her shame tried to say otherwise. He let out a ragged groan and pulled her hard against him. She felt him explode inside her, hot and endless, pushing her over the edge and taking her with him. The orgasm was overwhelming, shaking her from the inside out, taking everything and leaving nothing but his voice in her ears and his cum in her ass.

“Say it,” he said, and she hated how loud her cry was, how raw and real her body’s answer had been.

Then he was gone. Just like that, he was gone. The silence of the empty church surrounded her as she tried to pull herself together. She could feel the warm, sticky wetness between her thighs as she reached down, shakily, and pulled her panties back up over her hips. They were soaked with him, with her, with everything. She felt dizzy, trying to understand, trying to comprehend, trying to figure out how it could feel so wrong and so wonderful, so shameful and so exactly what she wanted. She was sore and stretched and incredibly, unbelievably satisfied.

The room was silent as she adjusted her skirt and slowly sank to her knees. She sobbed into her hands, unsure if she was crying in shame, in relief, or in disappointment that he had left her, just like everyone else did, just like she always knew they would. He didn’t even say goodbye, and the silence of the empty sanctuary felt louder than her own ragged breath, louder than her own gasping sobs. She sat back, on her heels, tears running down her cheeks, the unspeakable feeling of warmth and fullness still deep inside her.

“I’m not a slut!” she said, more to herself than anyone else, but she could hear the lie in her own voice.

***

The memory left her trembling. She was 18, and alone, and exposed, and helpless, and it had been so good. Allison sat on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, her whole body tingling with the aftershocks of shameful pleasure and searing guilt. Her breath came quick, and her hand moved quicker, trailing down the flat expanse of her stomach, past the hem of her modest skirt, to the desperate heat between her legs. She gasped at her own boldness, her own weakness, her own need.

“Why does it feel so good?” she whispered, more a moan than a question.

Her fingers, trembling, drifted down and stopped at the elastic waistband of her panties. She could feel the heat there, her body responding even to the lightest touch, but her shame and her faith fought against it. She yanked her hand back, up, away from the shameful place it wanted so much to be.

She was supposed to be a good Christian girl, supposed to resist these urges that left her feeling like nothing but a worthless, filthy whore. She felt dizzy with the guilt of it, of wanting so much to give in and feel that incredible rush, that perfect, sinful pleasure again. She tried to pray, but her words were lost in a flood of unholy desire.

“Please, God, give me strength,” she whispered, then gasped as her hand moved back down, touching herself through the thin material of her underwear. She was so wet, she could feel it even there, and she closed her eyes tight, but the images were waiting. The hands. The force. The absolute loss of control.

Her shame and her longing pushed against each other until there was no space left for anything else. Not even God. The memory of that day, of that moment, the helpless surrender and intense, consuming need, all left her aching for it. Please, God, please. She opened her eyes, a wild, desperate look that held nothing of faith or strength.

It had awakened something inside her, the memory of the usher, the memory of his hands, the memory of the way she could give in and feel like she was losing everything, even as she gained the one thing she craved more than anything else. She bit her lip, already flushed and breathless, even from just the thought of it.

Her fingers pressed against the cotton panties again, circling the warm wetness. She thought of him bending her over the pew, how wrong it was, how wonderful, how she needed it to happen again. It was no wonder, she thought, that God had abandoned her. She was worthless. She was the worst kind of slut.

“Why can’t I stop this?” she moaned, almost crying as she moved her hips against her fingers. God had to be able to see how awful she was, how needy and helpless and worthless she was. Nothing but a sinful girl full of desires that were bigger than her faith. How can He love me when I’m like this?

She wanted to be good, wanted to be pure, but even the thought of trying to resist was nothing compared to the thought of being taken again, bent over and filled. She shifted her legs, parting them slightly, hating herself more and more with every inch.

The memory felt more real to her than the plain white walls and simple bedspread. More real than God’s love. More real than anything, and she gave in, feeling the heat and wetness of herself as her fingers slid under the elastic, under the waistband, under every pretense she ever had of being anything but a dirty, shameful whore.

She was soaked, her body eager and willing despite her thoughts and prayers. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her bra, and she rocked against her hand, lost in the desire and the pleasure and the uncontrollable urge to give herself over to it all.

“I’m such a slut,” she thought, feeling the truth of it in her trembling, needy body. She couldn’t even pretend that God might forgive her. She couldn’t even pretend that she wanted Him to. Not with how good it felt.

Not with how her whole body reacted, shaking, slick, and more eager than any good girl should ever be. She lay back, pulling her legs up, thighs pressed together, one hand between them, the other grabbing the headboard like she could keep herself from drifting away.

“I’m such a slut,” she said, letting the words echo, sinful and perfect, in her ears.

Her fingers slipped easily inside, finding her slick and ready, finding her body’s confession more real and honest than any prayer she’d ever made. “Oh, God,” she moaned, moving harder, faster, imagining his hands, his voice, his cock.

The thought of being used, of being helpless, of being filled and left alone again made her push against her fingers, a deep ache rising inside her, ready to explode, ready to break, ready to make her whole and ruin her all at once. Her breath was quick and shallow, her whole petite frame trembling as she gave in.

“Help me, Jesus,” she thought, almost laughing at how little she meant it, how much she didn’t care. Her body wanted this, her mind wanted this, and God’s love was a distant memory compared to the way she came, helpless and needy and already wanting more, fingers soaked, heart racing, heat and longing still deep inside her.

She imagined the rough hands on her, imagined the force and strength of a man who knew how much she craved it, how much she would let him do. She tried to pray for strength, for purity, but her own desperate cry drowned out every word, every thought.

“I’m just a hole,” she thought, her hands moving as fast as her hips, out of control, spiraling into another orgasm that filled her and emptied her all at once.

She could hardly breathe, hardly think, hardly stop from going again and again, taking herself like the worthless, unholy girl she knew she was. Nothing left but pleasure and shame. She opened her eyes, wide and wild, tears of release and defeat streaming down her cheeks.

She was nothing but a dirty, sinful girl. She had to admit it, if only to herself, if only to the God who would never look at her again. She was curled into a ball, still shaking, still so full of longing and emptiness.

“I’m such a slut,” she whispered again, barely more than a breath, and she could almost hear God leaving her, just like everyone else did, just like everyone else would. “I’m such a slut,” she said, over and over, until the tears took her words and turned them into something more. Until the tears took everything, and turned it into something less.