kabesa (kabesa) wrote in wmiller_fanfic,

The Miller diaries: God Called Magdalene

Rated NC-17 for explicit sexual content.

Proceed at your own risk. Do NOT read if you object to the desecration of Church rules.

As a good Catholic girl I could not overlook the opportunity to indulge my own godly fantasy…Hope it keeps your devotion burning…

I wish I could entertain other religions too but alas, I’m familiar only with Christianity.

This is the first story in which my beloved Went takes up a role and is not his “usual” self. Hope it’s a refreshing change.


This story was inspired by the book “Doomed Souls” by Dimitar Dimov. For the sake of enjoyment, my priest is less straight-laced than Father Eredia.



During mass, you keep your eyes averted down not as a sign of modesty and piousness but deliberately forcing yourself to avoid looking at the priest leading the sermon. The liturgy is over and parishioners rise up to take communion. You walk up to the aisle and take your place in the queue. With your black modest dress and the scarf primly pulled over your hairline, you seem the paragon of religious devotion.  But inside you, a less wholesome devotion is conjured each time you enter the House of God.

The elderly lady behind you nudges you to move forward and you stand up before the priest. Then you dare raise your gaze and you meet his otherworldly eyes.

Green eyes. The color of shoreline waters, of sprouting new leaves, of pavement reflections after rain, of unrefined jade. Green eyes. The incarnation of the mutability of nature. Blue at dusk, grey at artificial light, patterned in rage. Yet essentially a different variation of the same Technicolor prism. Green eyes. The mirror of the microcosm, the connection with animalistic atavism, the medium of unbridled emotion.

You stand up momentarily lost in his calm face that exudes the humility of an angel.

His outstretched hand holding the communion jolts you from reverie. “Body of Christ,” he says softly as you take in the piece of bread. Ironically, the smooth velvety voice makes you think of a more earthly body.

You stretch out your tongue so that it accidentally brushes against his fingertips. The carnal contact sends goose bumps along your skin. Then you lean over and kiss his hand. Your lips linger on the veiny flesh a second too long as you savor the clean soapy smell that emanates from it. He withdraws it looking at you sternly.  

You rise to your feet casting your glance downward. “Father,” you speak softly, “When do you take confessions?”

“Confessions are on Wednesdays, girl,” the voice of the elderly lady booms behind you.

“I can’t wait until Wednesday,” you continue relentlessly. “Could you take me in today?”

“We have a charity event today and I will be busy all day,” he replies apologetically.

“I can come to help with it,” you offer. “We can do it afterwards, it won’t take much time. It’s really important that I take it off my chest ass soon as possible.”

He nods slightly.

You walk away determined to show at the charity event and do as much work as possible hoping to appease him to spare you a few minutes


For the past several weeks you have been going to church religiously. Rain, cold, life responsibilities have not prevented you from stepping inside the gilded temple of the Holy Father and bending your knees on the wooden pews. The fiery sermons have fuelled your zealous devotion that is dampened only by the moist feeling between your legs every time you hear the priest speak.


That day you spend hours lugging boxes, arranging gifts and sorting donations. At the end of the day when the crowd disperses, you diligently settle for sweeping the floor and tying up chairs. It’s dark when the work is finished and you walk up to the front row with trepidation. The golden chandeliers disperse magical light over you creating an ethereal atmosphere that causes you to transcend your spiritual existence. You sense rather than see him approaching.

“You came,” he says quietly.

“Yes, Father, I came,” you bow lightly as he points you toward the confessional stand.

“You seem to be very devoted,” he says pulling the curtain over the divide.

“Yes, Father, worship has made home in my heart,” you reply piously.

“So,” his honey-laced voice resonates through the holes, “What are your sins?”

“I don’t have any sins,” you reply softly.

“Everyone has sins. You are in denial of yours,” he reproaches you.

“I haven’t committed them yet, Father,” you utter delicately.

“Speak up,” he urges you.

“I…I have been having these thoughts recently….about sharing…” you begin.

“Sharing what?” he asks perplexed.

“Sharing what we have…with other people…Sharing our possessions and… passions...”

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled,” he quotes the beatitudes as he makes the sign of the cross.

“Yes, I hope to be filled, Father,” you take a deep breath and your voice makes a throaty dive. Your hand slips between your thighs as you clench your legs.

“You are not supposed to do it expecting gratitude,” he reproaches you.

“I’m sorry, I apologize. Father, I have been wondering how much we are supposed to give…I have been reading Peter Singer and he says that  we ‘ought to give as much as possible, that is, at least up to the point at which by giving more one would cause oneself and one's dependents as much suffering as one would prevent.’  But Christ said that our suffering in the name of God will be rewarded. Which one is right, Father? I have been lying awake at night thinking about it.”

You bite your lip at the thought of your sleepless nights.

“You are juxtaposing the Catholic and the utilitarian view,” he speaks weighting his words. “You know which stance I would take.”

“So would you sacrifice yourself to alleviate suffering?” you ask breathless. Warm waves engulf your body.

“What does it has to do with me?” he asks caught off-guard.

“A lot,” you reply slyly. Sweat beads glisten on your forehead.

You get up and walk out of the confessional chapel closing the door behind you noiselessly.

“Where are you going? I haven’t forgiven you?” he asks surprised.

You open the door of his part of the confessional and see him holding the Bible in his hands looking confused. His expression changes to dismay as he sees you at the door.

“You are not supposed to come here,” he says icily.

He gets up and grabs hold of the door.

“Unknown are God’s ways,” you look down still holding the knob. Then you look up and your pleading eyes meet his resentful stare. His jaw tenses.

You rise on tiptoes and your lips gently brush against his. His face is white, drained of emotions but he does not brush you off nor step back. You put a hand on his shoulder and kiss him again, this time pressing your lips against his. Slowly, you feel his mouth part and his lips grasping hold of yours. You place your hands on his neck pulling him close to you. His hands tentatively move up to your shudders and the fall listless down. His tongue is less timid: it probes into your mouth until it meets yours and the contact makes the butterflies in your stomach do back flips.

You wrap your hands around his strong shoulders and press your body against his. Through the cassock you can feel his body heat galvanizing you. His arms pull your waist toward him as he drags you inside the confessional room. The dark alcove welcomes your burgeoning passion.

Once having overcome his reticence, he presses you against the confessional divide and starts kissing your neck. Small passionate kisses rain on your collarbone drawing you in the murky waters of sensual sin. Your hands fumble with the black cloth that swathes his body unable to remove it. He does the job for you by withdrawing for a moment and taking it off. The cassock drops on the floor like discarded mores. At the flicker of the seeping light his flesh glistens enticingly.

You look at each other caught up with the realization of the impending doom but neither of you moves. He pulls you closer until his panting breath mixes with yours. Your hands trace the sinuous curve of his spine and up to his shoulder blades.

His hands slip down along your thighs and under your skirt. You make it easier for him by propping one foot on the bench and hiking up the fabric. The Bible tumbles down on the floor.

His hands reach between your legs just as the cup of your juices is running over. The deft fingers caress your sprouting flower sending shivers through your body.

You pull away from his as your hand trail down his abdomen. You unzip his pants and to your dismay face his bare flesh. You slowly kneel down overcome with the burning desire to pray at the altar of the erect large veiny member in front of you. His eyes close and his face makes a contorted expression as he feels the warmth of your mouth. Your teeth graze upon the throbbing veins that grace the cobweb of treasure.

He pulls you away just at the cusp of turmoil. His hands are shaking as he pulls you upright and monetarily you think he would push you away. But in frenzy, he rips up your skirt as he comes into contact with your bare flesh. You wrap your legs around his waist savoring the tide that engulf you in its tantalizing force. The hot spikes of lava do not take long to sweep the rim of the volcano and rush down the slopes raining down millions of minute twinkling stars in your rushed bloodstream.

You slow down wrapping your arms around his shoulders listening to his labored breathing.  Above you, the Virgin Mary casts down eyes in humility.<\lj-cut>

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