The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Nativity

(fd, ma)

A woman attending Christmas Eve church service is drawn to a mysterious parishioner.

* * *

I hated going to church.

But the good Roman Catholic that I was raised to be still made the concession of going twice a year—Easter and Christmas. It was Christmas Eve.

After three complete trips around the parking lot—almost losing it on a patch of ice around one curve—I finally managed to find a spot ... about as far away from St. Pius Church as one could get. A gust of wind sent a shivery chill up my skirt as I hurried toward the entrance. Stupid me. Not even pantyhose between me and Mother Nature except for the sheer black thong I decided to put on that morning in my naughtily private act of religious defiance.

The place was packed. Obviously, there was a town full of people like me making their once-a-year pilgrimage to church and rid themselves of some guilt for the next 364 days. I could just hear the last organ chords of “Ave Maria” as I opened the main entrance doors unfashionably late.

I shrugged as I rubbed my mittened hands together and looked around—not a seat in the House. There were even a couple dozen people lined against the walls as the service began. The church was in the shape, appropriately, of a cross so that there were two wings of pews on each side of the altar. I tip-toed my way back outside and braving another chilling blast of air quick-stepped around the building and entered from the right side.

Again, packed. I was just about to resign myself to an hour of standing when I noticed one small open spot. Ugh. Front row. I momentarily considered just walking out and risking damnation, but instead I walked as briskly as I could down the far right aisle without drawing attention and slid into the first space in the first row.

The church was beautifully decorated—the candles, the poinsettias, the large, ornate manger. Something was missing there, but I didn’t let my thoughts linger on it. It was lovely anyway, although I would have preferred being home drinking spiked eggnog.

The two Readings were the same every year, so I let my mind drift as I settled in. Maybe this won’t be too (yawwwn) painful. I could always catch a quick nap. I drifted.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light ...”

My casually roaming eyes moved past the lectern and settled onto the front row of pews facing me. All but one head was turned slightly up and to the right listening.

All except HER.

I had to catch a small, inexplicable gasp. I had never seen anyone like her before. She stared straight ahead, and me being directly across from her made it appear as though she were looking right at me. She wore a bright white dress which highlighted her elegant neckline. A pretty, pale blue wrap was delicately draped across her shoulders. Her olive-toned skin looked almost like porcelain the way it shone. Flawless. She looked quite literally statuesque.

Her hair was parted in the middle with her bangs cut neatly and swept to the sides, accentuating her long dark-brown hair. Her eyes, even from about fifty feet away, I could see were a deeper-than-deep blue, which struck me as odd considering her other features. But what was the most striking was her mouth. Was it a smile? It was hard to tell. Her lips were pulled thinly wide and slightly curled at the ends. It reminded me of Mona Lisa’s. Amused? Enticing? Dreamy? Content? Every time I blinked those tight, pink lips sent me a different message.

She was mesmerizing. “Amen!”

“... The grace of God has appeared, saving all and training ...”

The hell with the Mass, I was fixated. I could feel my heart drumming under my thick, cable-knit sweater. I was strangely nervous. Excited. I wasn’t attracted to women in a sexual way, but I did appreciate beauty. And she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And she was looking at me!

As we stood for the Gospel—which I had memorized thanks to Linus van Pelt—I noticed that she was the only person not standing. Must not even be Catholic. That’s weird. What was she doing here at midnight on Christmas Eve then?

“Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring ...”

She was smiling that smile. I felt as if she was only a few feet away from me, smiling. Knowing. I smiled back numbly. It made my head swim with just the tiniest of improbable thoughts that maybe ...

I was dumbstruck by Her.

I snapped awake from my daze as the congregation sat down for the Homily—instinctively thinking, “Please God don’t make it long and boring.”—and noticed the girl next to me for the first time. She was young and pretty. A college girl in her university sweatshirt and purposefully slashed jeans. I realized the reason I probably hadn’t noticed her until that moment—she hadn’t moved a muscle. She hadn’t stood up either. She just sat there, eyes forward, breathing slowly in and out. Her impressive breasts rising and falling smoothly.

I knew where she was looking too. At HER.

The priest was droning on and on ... maybe it was interesting, what he was saying. I couldn’t have cared less. I blinked, and Her unwavering smile beckoned me, called to me. I could almost hear the soft whisper in my ear, then a breathy caress against my lips. So close ...

I could tell without looking that She was calling to my neighbor too. We were both bewitched by Her smile, those eyes. Eyes both comforting and ever more craving.

Then, the most extraordinary thing happened. I could see Her. All of Her, through her gown. Her exquisitely shaped breasts translucent through the material. The large, spherical areolas, the stiffened nipples like gold-spiked coins. And downward.

The pew front should have cut Her in half, but I could see—even from this vantage point—the subtle slope of white revealing to me Her exquisite navel. My tongue peeked out timidly, seeking the softness of that alluring button even from across the entire apse. Searching from between my lips, daring to taste. And downward still, to the precise V of Her magnificent bush, smooth and tightly curled as if it were painted on Her flesh. The perfect naked form.

Please, God! Father, keep talking! Don’t let this moment end!

So beautiful. I tried to think clearly, but a pervasive fog of yearning clouded my logic. What was going on with me? With Her? Her face emitted a steady calm, almost pastoral. However, beneath that, was a torrent of sexual passion I couldn’t deny. She demanded my attention, and I couldn’t help but acquiesce.

That calmness was indistinguishable from a harsh possessiveness that made me moisten despite myself.

Did She arch an eyebrow? The girl—sister came to mind—mewled. She spread her legs in tandem with my own. Exposing our need for Her. Her needs. I heard the gentle pop-pop-pop of the buttons on her fly, only then looking down to see her hand slip inside the virgin-white panties already dampened from below.

I sat there, with my knees parted. Ashamed. Aflame. The man next to my sister (oh God!) was very tall and broad-shouldered, partially blocking us off from the rest of the congregation. Thank heaven! I spread even wider before slowly reaching down under my skirt and pulling aside my panty.

I could tell then that my flower was in full bloom. Engorged and begging. My essence was like a thickened teardrop tracing downward to my other flower. My rosebud puckered and spasmed eagerly to catch my juice against its softness.

The congregation rose for the Profession of Faith, yet we sat there, my new sister and I, completely entranced by Her. I didn’t even care anymore if the people standing behind us could see our shameless sinfulness. Nothing entered my thoughts but Her. I blinked, and Her unchanged smile let me know She was pleased.

She was a shining, rocky shoal in the sea of desire and I was a castaway boat driving to wreck on Her jagged peak and drown in it. I was drenched.

I had the impulse—Her impulse—to move and we joined the rest in kneeling. But while they kneeled for ceremony, we kneeled for Her. As others rose for Communion, we knelt in prayer to Her carnal divinity. I slowly rubbed my weeping pussy in sacred tribute.

Time was meaningless. My thoughts—my life, my world—seeped out of me with every stroke. Where ... did I park the car? Where did I live? Work? My father and brothers ... Who? ... Who am I? Memories poured out of me, flowing out my ears and popping like soap bubbles. Gone forever.

“Joy to the world ...” There was singing, matching the singing in my heart just to be in Her presence. Nothing else mattered.

There was movement all around us. But my sister and I remained kneeling. In fulfilling servitude. One by one the shadowy figures fell out of view. All that existed were the two of us. And Her.

I faintly heard the clack of a candlestick, and noticed weakly an altar boy clearing away the trappings of their worship. Not mine. Not anymore.

Then, for the first time She moved and lifted the blue wrap onto Her head, as a priestess. Someone stood up from behind my sister. It was a third woman. Older, attractive. And blank, but for the evident pull inside her do as She willed. She side-stepped down the aisle of pews and came forward joining us in the front. Three worshippers before our new deity.

Together we masturbated for Her in the empty church. Penitent in our failure to not reach this moment with Her sooner in our wasted lives. In unison our hands came to rest, our eyes unwavering, as She stood and approached us. Oh, my heart leaped! She was magnificent in Her splendor! A Queen of unspeakable grace and beauty before Her new servants.

She stopped a few paces from us, and looked upon Her three anxious disciples with what I can only describe as pride. I sensed it. I could feel my nipples fighting to burst through my bra and thick sweater, eager to be on display for Her.

She approached the first woman and placed Her hand upon her forehead. The woman’s head fell back, her shoulders began to quiver. As She closed her eyes, so did the woman, and for a moment I could almost see something pass between them before the woman slammed her thighs together ... and came.

“Welcome, my child.”

The woman opened her eyes slowly. The look of profound and complete contentment made her face glow.

She stepped toward my other sister, the college girl, and again placed Her hand on her forehead. The anticipation for my turn nearly made me cry aloud. I had painted every door of my mind shut but the one which opened to Her wishes. It was then that I noticed Her hands. They were smooth and delicate, with a luster that made them seem unreal. Unblemished. And Her deep pink nails, unvarnished. Hands unnatural. As if they had never seen the light of day.

The girl moaned blissfully, and shook with the orgasmic glee of devotion. It made my heart pound in my chest as I gazed up at Her again. I could hardly control my excitement.

“Welcome, my child.”

It was my turn. She looked down at me, and I could feel the cleansing heat between my legs, slowly erasing my past forever. Only She lay ahead.

She put Her hand on my forehead.

I felt Her hard coolness. She forced me to think of Andre, my lover ... his masculinity. Then repulsion. She swaddled me in Her femininity, Her power. Until She, and only She, remained in my mind.

I climaxed, a cavernous wellspring of joy enveloping my senses. As Her hand held me still, understanding flowed between us. Infinite and lasting. She became my Goddess through the umbilical of my submission to Her. I was born anew. She had birthed me to one purpose—obedience to Her.

“Welcome,” She said, lowering Her hand. “My child.”

We crawled behind our Goddess, my sisters and I, as She herded us toward the vestibule. Everything began to fade from view but Her frozen image.

Our journey was short. Our destination ... rapture.